SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN 
LITERATURE 


SELECTIONS  OF  REPRESENTATIVE 
PROSE  AND  POETRY 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED  BY 

MAURICE  GARLAND  FULTON 

PROFESSOR   OF    ENGLISH,  DAVIDSON    COLLEGE 


GINN  AND  COMPANY 

BOSTON     •     NEW  YORK     •     CHICAGO     •     LONDON- 
ATLANTA     •     DALLAS     •     COLUMBUS     •    SAX   FRAXCISCO 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  MAURICE  GARLAND  FULTON 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


217.] 


CINN  AND  COMPANY  •  PRO 
PRIETORS  •  BOSTON  •  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

In  this  book  I  have  endeavored  to  represent  as  adequately 
as  might  be  possible  within  the  limits  of  a  volume  of  moderate 
size  the  work  of  the  more  important  Southern  writers.  My  at 
tempt  has  been  not  merely  to  show  the  value  of  literary  effort 
in  the  South  as  absolute  achievement  but  also  to  emphasize  its 
importance  as  a  record  of  Southern  life  and  character. 

Taking  literature  in  the  stricter  sense  of  fiction,  essay,  and 
poetry,  I  have  omitted  the  historians,  the  biographers,  and  the 
political  writers  so  frequently  used  to  swell  the  bulk  of  Southern 
literature.  In  poetry  I  have  endeavored  to  select  poems  which 
have  attained  some  measure  of  general  critical  approval.  But 
in  some  instances,  especially  in  the  Civil  War  poetry,  I  have 
included  poems  obviously  without  much  literary  merit  because 
they  were  household  poems  of  an  older  generation  and  embodied 
in  a  characteristic  way  the  traditions  and  spirit  of  the  people 
who  loved  them.  For  much  the  same  reason  I  have  included 
a  few  specimens  of  the  vanishing  survivals  of  old  English  bal 
lads  to  the  presence  of  which  in  the  South  attention  has  lately 
been  turned. 

In  the  case  of  the  older  prose  writers,  I  have  drawn  upon  a 
very  limited  number  of  the  most  significant  works.  As  most  of 
these  were  out  of  print  or  difficult  to  secure,  I  have  tried  to  give 
a  general  idea  of  each  by  means  of  liberal  excerpts  and  suitable 
summaries.  Coming  to  the  recent  novelists  and  story-writers, 
whose  number  is  almost  legion,  I  was  compelled  to  confine  my 
self  rigidly  to  the  five  pioneers  in  the  new  development  of  fiction 

360494 


vi      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

in  the  eighties.  The  single  departure  from  this  principle  in  the 
case  of  William  Sidney  Porter  ("  O.  Henry  ")  will  require  no 
explanation.  I  have  devoted  much  attention  to  the  humorous 
writers  of  the  South  because  of  my  belief  that,  although  much 
of  this  work  was  rough  and  crude,  it  was  nevertheless  very 
influential  not  only  in  the  development  of  American  humor  but 
also  in  that  of  realistic  fiction. 

Better  to  fit  the  book  to  the  needs  of  students,  I  have  tried 
to  organize  the  material  effectively.  The  table  of  contents  will 
show  that  the  arrangement  is  roughly  chronological,  with  such 
subdivisions  as  would  bring  together  writers  of  the  same  type 
of  literature.  Further  aids  to  students  have  been  given  in 
biographical  notes,  summaries  of  literary  developments,  explana 
tions  of  unfamiliar  matters  in  the  selections,  and  bibliographies 
—  all  being  held  to  the  briefest  compass. 

I  have  given  at  appropriate  places  in  the  book  acknowledg 
ments  for  permission  to  reprint  such  of  the  selections  as  were 
under  copyright,  but  I  wish  here  to  record  in  a  general  way 
grateful  appreciation  of  the  courtesy  extended  to  me  in  this 
matter  by  authors  and  by  publishers. 

M.  G.  F. 

Davidson  College, 
Davidson,  N.  C. 


CONTENTS 

PART  I.    THE  OLD  SOUTH  IX  LITERATURE 

ESSAYISTS  AND  DESCRIPTIVE  WRITERS 
WILLIAM  WIRT  PAGE 

THE  BRITISH  SPY'S  OPINION'  OF   THE  SPECTATOR     ....        i 
AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  PREACHER 4 

DAVID  CROCKETT 

THE  BEAR  HUNT 8 

JOHN  JAMES  AUDUBOX 

EARLY  SETTLERS  ALONG  THE  MISSISSIPPI      14 

WILLIAM  ELLIOTT 

A  DEER  HUNT 19 

ROMANCERS  AND  STORY  WRITERS 
EDGAR  ALLAX  POE 

THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 28 

JOHX  PEXDLETOX  KENNEDY 

\J /^SELECTIONS  FROM  "SWALLOW  BARN" 50 

/Swallow  Barn,  an  Old  Virginia  Estate 50 

The  Master  of  Swallow  Barn 54 

I    The  Mistress  of  Swallow  Barn 57 

\  Traces  of  the  Feudal  System 59 

\The  Quarter 64 

SELECTIONS  FROM  "  HORSESHOE  ROBINSON  " 68 

Horseshoe  Robinson 68 

Capture  of  Butler  and  Horseshoe 72 

Horseshoe  captures  Five  Prisoners 77 

The  Battle  of  King's  Mountain 90 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 

SELECTION  FROM  "THE  YEMASSEE" 105 

The  Attack  on  the  Block  House 105 

vii 


viii      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE  PAGE 

SELECTIONS  FROM  "THE  VIRGINIA  COMEDIANS" 124 

Mr.  Champ  Effingham  of  Effingham  Hall 124 

Governor  Fauquier's  Ball 128 

HUMORISTS 

AUGUSTUS  BALDWIN  LONGSTREET 

THE  HORSE  SWAP .    151 

THE  TURN  OUT 161 

WILLIAM  TAPPAN  THOMPSON 

MAJOR  JONES'S  COURTSHIP 170 

JOSEPH  GLOVER  BALDWIN 

OVID  BOLUS,  ESQ 176 

How  THE  FLUSH  TIMES  SERVED  THE  VIRGINIANS    ....    180 

POETS 
ST.  GEORGE  TUCKER 

RESIGNATION 188 

FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY 

THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER 190 

RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE 

MY  LIFE  is  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  ROSE 192 

TO   THE    MOCKING-BIRD     .     V^G^C* 193 

EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY 

SONG 194 

A  SERENADE 194 

A  HEALTH 195 

MIRABEAU  BUONAPARTE  LAMAR 

THE  DAUGHTER  OF  MENDOZA 197 

ALBERT  PIKE 

To  THE  MOCKING  BIRD 198 

PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE 

FLORENCE  VANE 200 

LIFE  IN  THE  AUTUMN  WOODS    .  202 


CONTENTS  ix 

THEODORE  O'HARA  PAGE 

THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 205 

ALEXANDER  BEAUFORT  MEEK 

A  SONG 209 

LAND  OF  THE  SOUTH 210 

THE  MOCKING  BIRD 211 

HENRY  ROOTES  JACKSON 

THE  RED  OLD  HILLS  OF  GEORGIA 213 

MY  WIFE  AND  CHILD 215 

JAMES  MAtTHEWS  LEGARfi 

To  A  LILY 217 

HAW  BLOSSOMS 217 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 

OH,  THE  SWEET  SOUTH  ! 220 

THE  SWAMP  Fox 222 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

To  HELEN 225 

ISRAFEL 227 

THE  RAVEN 228 

ULALUME 233 

ANNABEL  LEE 237 

ELDORADO .    .    .  238 

PART   II.    POETRY  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 

JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

MY  MARYLAND 240 

JOHN  PELHAM 243 

ALBERT  PIKE 

DIXIE 244 

HARRY  MCCARTHY 

THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG 246 

JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE 

THE  BAND  IN  THE  PINES 247 


x          SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 
JOHN  REUBEN  THOMPSON  PAGE 

ASHBY 249 

Music  IN  CAMP 250 

THE  BURIAL  OF  LATANE 253 

WILLIAM  GORDON  McCABE 

DREAMING  IN  THE  TRENCHES 255 

CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  OF  '62 256 

JOHN  PEGRAM 258 

JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER 

STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY 259 

HENRY  LYNDEN  FLASH 

STONEWALL  JACKSON 261 

THADDEUS  OLIVER 

ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE  POTOMAC  TO-NIGHT 262 

MARIE  RAVENEL  DE  LA  COSTE 

SOMEBODY'S  DARLING 264 

CAROLINE  AUGUSTA  BALL 

THE  JACKET  OF  GRAY 266 

MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON 

GONE  FORWARD 268 

THE  SHADE  OF  THE  TREES 269 

ANONYMOUS 

THE  SOLDIER  BOY 270 

"THE  BRIGADE  MUST  NOT  KNOW,  SIR!" 271 

THE  CONFEDERATE  FLAG 272 

LINES  ON  A  CONFEDERATE  NOTE 273 

ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN 

THE  CONQUERED  BANNER   275 

THE  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE 277 

HENRY  TIMROD 

CAROLINA 279 

A  CRY  TO  ARMS 282 

CHARLESTON 284 

SPRING  .    .  286 


CONTENTS  xi 

C\^  /)  PAGE 

THE  COTTON  BOLL  .    .Nh^^^ 288 

THE  LILY  CONFIDANTE 293 

MAGNOLIA  CEMETERY  ODE 295 

FRANCIS  ORRAY  TICKNOR 

LITTLE  GIFFEN 297 

THE  VIRGINIANS  OF  THE  VALLEY 298 

UNKNOWN 299 

PAGE  BROOK 300 

LOYAL 301 

PART  III.    THE  NEW  SOUTH   IX  LITERATURE 
HUMORISTS 

RICHARD  MALCOLM  JOHNSTON 

THE  GOOSEPOND  SCHOOLMASTER 303 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY 

JUD  BROWNIN'S  ACCOUNT  OF  RUBINSTEIN'S  PLAYING  .    .    .    308 

NOVELISTS  AND  STORY  WRITERS 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE 

THE  DANCE  IN  PLACE  CONGO 314 

JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

BRER  RABBIT  GROSSLY  DECEIYES  BRER  Fox 324 

THE  CUNNING  Fox  is  AGAIN  VICTIMIZED 328 

MARY  NOAILLES  MURFREE  ("CHARLES  EGBERT 

CRADDOCK") 
THE  "HARNT"  THAT  WALKS  CHILHOWEE 332 

THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE 

MARSE  CHAN  (SUMMARY) 342 

THE  TRAINING  OF  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  LAWYER 347 

JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 

Two  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY 348 

WILLIAM  SIDNEY  PORTER  ("  O  HENRY") 

Two  RENEGADES 363 


xii       SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

ESS  A  YISTS  AND  DESCRIPTIVE  WRITERS 

SUSAN  DABNEY  SMEDES  PAGE 

A  SOUTHERN  PLANTER'S  IDEALS  OF  HONOR 373 

v/BASIL  LANNEAU  GILDERSLEEVE 

f\     THE  CREED  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH 377 

WILLIAM  PETERFIELD  TRENT 

THE  DIVERSITY  AMONG  SOUTHERNERS 389 

POETS 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

A  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUTH  WINDS 400 

ASPECTS  OF  THE  PINES 401 

MACDONALD'S  RAID — 1780     .    .    , 402 

THE  PINE'S  MYSTERY  .    .    vfecLOt  r» 405 

THE  WILL  AND  THE  WING 405 

THE  AXE  AND  PINE 407 

MIDSUMMER  IN  THE  SOUTH 407 

IRWIN  RUSSELL 

NEBUCHADNEZZAR ".    .    '. 410 

SELLING  A  DOG 412 

DAT  PETER 413 

SIDNEY  LANIER 

THE  TOURNAMENT 416 

£ONG   OF   THE    CHATTAHOOCHEE 419 

THE  CRYSTAL 421 

SUNRISE 422 

JOHN  BANISTER  TABB 

MY  STAR 429 

KILLDEE 430 

CLOVER 430 

FAME 431 

JOHN  HENRY  BONER 

MOONRISE  IN  THE  PlNES 431 

THE  LIGHT'OOD  FIRE 434 

POE'S  COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM 435 


CONTENTS  xiii 

WILL  HENRY  THOMPSON  PAGE 

THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG 437 

SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK 

A  SOUTHERN  GIRL 44<> 

THE  GRAPEVINE  SWING 441 

AUNT  JEMIMA'S  QUILT 443 

WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

A  MEADOW  SONG 445 

WHEN  DOGWOOD  BRIGHTENS  THE  GROVES  OF  SPRING     .    .    447 

ROBERT  BURNS  WILSON 

To  A  CROW 448 

BALLAD  OF  THE  FADED  FIELD 448 

FRANK  LEBBY  STANTON 

A  PLANTATION  DITTY 450 

THE  GRAVEYARD  RABBIT 450 

ANSWERING  TO  ROLL  CALL 451 

MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN 

THE  WHIPPOORWILL 453 

EVENING  ON  THE  FARM 454 

JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 

AWAY  DOWN  HOME 456 

Ax  IDYL 458 

BAREFOOTED 459 

SUNDOWN 460 

WALTER  MALONE 

OCTOBER  IN  TENNESSEE 461 

SURYIVALS  OF  OLD  BRITISH  BALLADS 

BARBARA  ALLEN 462 

LORD  THOMAS  AND  FAIR  ELEANOR 464 

THE  HANGMAN'S  TREE 467 

THE  WIFE  OF  USHER'S  WELL 469 

GEORGE  COLLINS 470 

NOTES 473 

SELECTED  BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  SOUTHERN 

LITERATURE 528 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  Lanier  Oak Frontispiece 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 27 

John  Pendleton  Kennedy 51 

Major  Butler  and  Horseshoe  Robinson 73 

William  Gilmore  Simms 105 

John  Esten  Cooke 124 

The  Raleigh  Tavern  in  Old  Williamsburg,  and  its  Famous  Apollo 

Room 129 

Blossom  and  his  Horse,  Bullet 152 

Michael  St.  John,  the  Schoolmaster,  effecting  an  Entrance  by 

Storm 1 68 

Tom  Edmundson  as  Schoolmaster 186 

Francis  Scott  Key 190 

Woodlands,  the  Country  Estate  of  William  Gilmore  Simms  .  .  221 

Poe's  Room  at  the  University  of  Virginia,  No.  13  West  Range  .  226 

John  Reuben  Thompson 248 

Henry  Timrod 278 

Francis  Orray  Ticknor 296 

George  Washington  Cable 313 

Joel  Chandler  Harris 324 

Mary  Noailles  Murfree 332 

Thomas  Nelson  Page 342 

James  Lane  Allen 349 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 399 

Copse  Hill,  the  Home  of  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 406 

Irwin  Russell 410 

Sidney  Lanier 415 

Poe's  Cottage  at  Fordham 435 

William  Hamilton  Ilayne 445 

Madison  Julius  Cawein 452 

John  Charles  McNeill 457 

xiv 


SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN 
LITERATURE 

PART  I.  THE  OLD  SOUTH  IN 
LITERATURE 

ESSAYISTS  AND   DESCRIPTIVE  WRITERS 

WILLIAM   WIRT 

[William  Wirt  was  born  at  Bladensburg.  Maryland,  in  1772.  He 
was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1792  and  began  practice  at  Culpeper 
Court-House,  Virginia.  After  1799  ne  resided  chiefly  at  Richmond 
until  his  appointment  as  Attorney-General  of  the  United  States  in 
1817.  This  position  he  held  for  twelve  years,  and  upon  his  retire 
ment  from  office  he  resided  in  Baltimore.  He  died  at  Washington 
in  1834.  During  Wirt's  practice  of  law  in  Virginia  his  best-known 
legal  argument  was  his  celebrated  speech  in  1807  against  Aaron 
Burr  at  the  latter's  trial  for  treason.  In  addition  to  success  at  the 
bar  Wirt  had  the  distinction  of  being  regarded  for  many  years  as 
the  chief  man  of  letters  in  the  South.] 

THE   BRITISH   SPY'S  OPINION  OF  THE  SPECTATOR 

In  one  of  my  late  rides  into  the  surrounding  country,  I 
stopped  at  a  little  inn  to  refresh  myself  and  my  horse ;  and, 
as  the  landlord  was  neither  a  Boniface  nor  "  mine  host  of  the 
garter,"  I  called  for  a  book,  by  way  of  killing  time  while  the 
preparations  for  my  repast  were  going  forward.  He  brought 
me  a  shattered  fragment  of  the  second  volume  of  The  Spectator, 


?      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

which  he  told  me  was  the  only  book  in  the  house,  for  * '  he 
never  troubled  his  head  about  reading  " ;  and  by  way  of  con 
clusive  proof,  he  further  informed  me  that  this  fragment,  the 
only  book  in  the  house,  had  been  sleeping  unmolested  on  the 
dust  of  his  mantelpiece  for  ten  or  fifteen  years.  I  could  not 
meet  my  venerable  countryman,  in  a  foreign  land,  and  in  this 
humiliating  plight,  nor  hear  of  the  inhuman  and  gothic  con 
tempt  with  which  he  had  been  treated,  without  the  liveliest 
emotion.  So  I  read  my  host  a  lecture  on  the  subject,  to  which 
he  appeared  to  pay  as  little  attention  as  he  had  before  done 
to  The  Spectator-,  and,  with  the  sang  froid  of  a  Dutchman, 
answered  me  in  the  cant  of  the  country,  that  he  "  had  other 
fish  to  fry,"  and  left  me. 

It  had  been  so  long  since  I  had  had  an  opportunity  of  open 
ing  an  agreeable  collection,  that  the  few  numbers  which  were 
now  before  me  appeared  almost  entirely  new ;  and  I  cannot 
describe  to  you  the  avidity  and  delight  with  which  I  devoured 
those  beautiful  and  interesting  speculations. 

Is  it  not  strange,  my  dear  S ,  that  such  a  work  should 

have  ever  lost  an  inch  of  ground  ?  A  style  so  sweet  and  simple, 
and  yet  so  ornamented !  a  temper  so  benevolent,  so  cheerful, 
so  exhilarating !  a  body  of  knowledge,  and  of  original  thought, 
so  immense  and  various,  so  strikingly  just,  so  universally  useful ! 
What  person,  of  any  age,  sex,  temper,  calling,  or  pursuit,  can 
possibly  converse  with  The  Spectator  without  being  conscious 
of  immediate  improvement  ? 

To  the  spleen  he  is  as  perpetual  and  never-failing  an  anti 
dote  as  he  is  to  ignorance  and  immorality.  No  matter  for  the 
disposition  of  mind  in  which  you  take  him  up ;  you  catch,  as 
you  go  along,  the  happy  tone  of  spirits  which  prevails  through 
out  the  work ;  you  smile  at  the  wit,  laugh  at  the  drollery,  feel 
your  mind  enlightened,  your  heart  opened,  softened,  and  refined ; 
and  when  you  lay  him  down,  you  are  sure  to  be  in  a  better 


WILLIAM   WIRT  (3 

^S^x 

humor,  both  with  yourself  and  everybody  else.  I  have  never 
mentioned  the  subject  to  a  reader  of  The  Spectator  who  did  not 
admit  this  to  be  the  invariable  process ;  and  in  such  a  world 
of  misfortune,  of  cares  and  sorrows  and  guilt,  as  this  is,  what 
a  prize  would  this  collection  be  if  it  were  rightly  estimated ! 

Were  I  the  sovereign  of  a  nation  which  spoke  the  English 
language,  and  wished  my  subjects  cheerful,  virtuous,  and  en 
lightened,  I  would  furnish  every  poor  family  in  my  dominions 
(and  see  that  the  rich  furnished  themselves)  with  a  copy  of 
The  Spectator,  and  ordain  that  the  parents  or  children  should 
read  four  or  five  numbers  aloud  every  night  in  the  year.  For 
one  of  the  peculiar  perfections  of  the  work  is,  that  while  it 
contains  such  a  mass  of  ancient  and  modern  learning,  so  much 
of  profound  wisdom  and  of  beautiful  composition,  yet  there  is 
scarcely  a  number  throughout  the  eight  volumes  which  is  not 
level  to  the  meanest  capacity.  Another  perfection  is,  that  The 
Spectator  will  never  become  tiresome  to  anyone  whose  taste 
and  whose  heart  remain  uncorrupted. 

I  do  not  mean  that  this  author  should  be  read  to  the  ex 
clusion  of  others ;  much  less  that  he  should  stand  in  the  way 
of  the  generous  pursuit  of  science,  or  interrupt  the  discharge 
of  social_pr  pn'vatp  Hiiti^s, — All  the  counsels  of  the  work  have  a 
directly  reverse  tendency.  It  furnishes  a  store  of  the  clearest 
argument  and  of  the  most  amiable  and  captivating  exhortations, 
"  to  raise  the  genius,  and  to  mend  the  heart."  I  regret  only 
that  such  a  book  should  be  thrown  by,  and  almost  entirely 
forgotten,  while  the  gilded  blasphemies  of  infidels,  and  the 
"  noontide*  trances  "  of  pernicious  theorists,  are  hailed  with  rap 
ture  and  echoed  around  the  world.  For  such,  I  should  be 
pleased  to  see  The  Spectator  universally  substituted ;  and, 
throwing  out  the  question  of  its  morality,  its  literary  infor 
mation,  its  sweetly  contagious  serenity,  and  pure  and  chaste 
beauties  of  its  style,  and  considering  it  merely  as  a  curiosity, 


4      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

as  concentering  the  brilliant  sports  of  the  finest  cluster  of 
geniuses  that  ever  graced  the  earth,  it  surely  deserves  per 
petual  attention,  respect,  and  consecration. 

There  is,  methinks,  my  S ,  a  great  fault  in  the  world, 

as  it  respects  this  subject:  a  giddy  instability,  a  light  and 
fluttering  vanity,  a  prurient  longing  after  novelty,  an  impa 
tience,  a  disgust,  a  fastidious  contempt  of  everything  that  is 
old.  You  will  not  understand  me  as  censuring  the  progress 
of  sound  science.  I  am  not  so  infatuated  an  antiquarian,  not 
so  poor  a  philanthropist,  as  to  seek  to  retard  the  expansion  of 
the  human  mind.  But  I  lament  the  eternal  oblivion  into  which 
our  old  authors,  those  giants  of  literature,  are  permitted  to  sink, 
while  the  world  stands  open-eyed  and  open-mouthed  to  catch 
every  modern,  tinseled  abortion  as  it  falls  from  the  press.  In 
the  polite  circles  of  America,  for  instance,  perhaps  there  is  no 
want  of  taste,  and  even  zeal,  for  letters.  I  have  seen  several 
gentlemen  who  appear  to  have  an  accurate,  a  minute,  acquaint 
ance  with  the  whole  range  of  literature,  in  its  present  state  of 
improvement ;  yet  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  I  have  not 
met  with  more  than  one  or  two  persons  in  this  country  who 
have  ever  read  the  works  of  Bacon  or  of  Boyle.  They  delight 
to  saunter  in  the  upper  story,  sustained  and  adorned,  as  it  is, 
with  the  delicate  proportions,  the  foliage  and  flourishes,  of  the 
Corinthian  order ;  but  they  disdain  to  make  any  acquaintance, 
or  hold  communion  at  all,  with  the  Tuscan  and  Doric  plainness 
and  strength  which  base  and  support  the  whole  edifice.  .  .  . 


AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  PREACHER 

It  was  one  Sunday,  as  I  traveled  through  the  county  of 
Orange,  that  my  eye  was  caught  by  a  cluster  of  horses  tied 
near  a  ruinous  old  wooden  house  in  the  forest,  not  far  from 
the  roadside.  Having  frequently  seen  such  objects  before,  in 


WILLIAM  WIRT  5 

traveling  through  those  states,  I  had  no  difficulty  in  understand 
ing  that  this  was  a  place  of  religious  worship. 

Devotion  alone  should  have  stopped  me,  to  join  in  the  duties 
of  the  congregation ;  but  I  must  confess  that  curiosity  to  hear 
the  preacher  of  such  a  wilderness  was  not  the  least  of  my 
motives.  On  entering,  I  was  struck  with  his  preternatural 
appearance.  He  was  a  tall  and  very  spare  old  man ;  his 
head,  which  was  covered  with  a  white  linen  cap,  his  shriveled 
hands,  and  his  voice  were  all  shaking  under  the  influence 
of  a  palsy ;  and  a  few  moments  ascertained  to  me  that  he  was 
perfectly  blind. 

The  first  emotions  that  touched  my  breast  were  those  of 
mingled  pity  and  veneration.  But  how  soon  were  all  my 
feelings  changed !  The  lips  of  Plato  were  never  more  worthy 
of  a  prognostic  swarm  of  bees  than  were  the  lips  of  this  holy 
man !  It  was  a  day  of  the  administration  of  the  sacrament ; 
and  his  subject  was,  of  course,  the  passion  of  our  Saviour.  I 
have  heard  the  subject  handled  a  thousand  times ;  I  had 
thought  it  exhausted  long  ago.  Little  did  I  suppose  that  in 
the  wild  woods  of  America  I  was  to  meet  with  a  man  whose 
eloquence  would  give  to  this  topic  a  new  and  more  sublime 
pathos  than  I  had  ever  before  witnessed. 

As  he  descended  from  the  pulpit  to  distribute  the  mystic 
symbols,  there  was  a  peculiar,  a  more  than  human,  solemnity 
in  his  air  and  manner  which  made  my  blood  run  cold  and  my 
whole  frame  shiver. 

He  then  drew  a  picture  of  the  sufferings  of  our  Saviour: 
his  trial  before  Pilate,  his  ascent  up  Calvary,  his  crucifixion, 
and  his  death.  I  knew  the  whole  history ;  but  never  until  then 
had  I  heard  the  circumstances  so  selected,  so  arranged,  so 
colored !  It  was  all  new ;  and  I  seemed  to  have  heard  it  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life.  His  enunciation  was  so  deliberate  that 
his  voice  trembled  on  every  syllable ;  and  every  heart  in  the 


6      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE     ' 

assembly  trembled  in  unison.  His  peculiar  phrases  had  the 
force  of  description,  that  the  original  scene  appeared  to  be  at 
that  moment  acting  before  our  eyes.  We  saw  the  very  faces 
of  the  Jews :  the  staring,  frightful  distortions  of  malice  and 
rage.  We  saw  the  buffet ;  my  soul  kindled  with  a  flame  of 
indignation,  and  my  hands  were  involuntarily  and  convulsively 
clinched. 

But  when  he  came  to  touch  on  the  patience,  the  forgiving 
meekness  of  our  Saviour ;  when  he  drew,  to  the  life,  his  blessed 
eyes  streaming  in  tears  to  heaven,  his  voice  breathing  to  God 
a  soft  and  gentle  prayer  of  pardon  on  his  enemies,  "  Father, 
forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do,"  —  the  voice 
of  the  preacher,  which  had  all  along  faltered,  grew  fainter  and 
fainter,  until,  his  utterance  being  entirely  obstructed  by  the 
force  of  his  feelings,  he  raised  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes 
and  burst  into  a  loud  and  irrepressible  flood  of  grief.  The 
effect  is  inconceivable.  The  whole  house  resounded  with  the 
mingled  groans,  and  sobs,  and  shrieks  of  the  congregation. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  tumult  had  subsided,  so  far  as 
to  permit  him  to  proceed.  Indeed,  judging  by  the  usual,  but 
fallacious  standard  of  my  own  weakness,  I  began  to  be  very 
uneasy  for  the  situation  of  the  preacher.  For  I  could  not 
conceive  how  he  would  be  able  to  let  his  audience  down  from 
the  height  to  which  he  had  wound  them,  without  impairing  the 
solemnity  and  dignity  of  his  subject,  or  perhaps  shocking  them 
by  the  abruptness  of  the  fall.  But  —  no ;  the  descent  was  as 
beautiful  and  sublime  as  the  elevation  had  been  rapid  and 
enthusiastic. 

The  first  sentence  with  which  he  broke  the  awful  silence 
was  a  quotation  from  Rousseau :  "  Socrates  died  like  a  phi 
losopher,  but  Jesus  Christ,  like  a  God ! " 

I  despair  of  giving  you  any  idea  of  the  effect  produced  by 
this  short  sentence,  unless  you  could  perfectly  conceive  the 


DAVID   CROCKETT  f 

whole  manner  of  the  man  as  well  as  the  peculiar  crisis  in  the 
discourse.  Never  before  did  I  completely  understand  what 
Demosthenes  meant  by  laying  such  stress  on  deliver)-.  You 
are  to  bring  before  you  the  venerable  figure  of  the  preacher; 
his  blindness,  constantly  recalling  to  your  recollection  old  Homer, 
Ossian,  and  Milton,  and  associating  with  his  performance  the 
melancholy  grandeur  of  their  geniuses;  you  are  to  imagine 
that  you  hear  his  slow,  solemn,  well-accented  enunciation,  and 
his  voice  of  affecting,  trembling  melody ;  you  are  to  remember 
the  pitch  of  passion  and  enthusiasm  to  which  the  congregation 
were  raised ;  and  then  the  few  moments  of  portentous,  death 
like  silence  which  reigned  throughout  the  house ;  the  preacher, 
removing  his  white  handkerchief  from  his  aged  face  (even  yet 
wet  from  the  recent  torrent  of  his  tears)  and  slowly  stretching 
forth  the  palsied  hand  which  holds  it,  begins  the  sentence, 
"  Socrates  died  like  a  philosopher,"  —  then,  pausing,  raising 
his  other  hand,  pressing  them  both,  clasped  together,  with 
warmth  and  energy  to  his  breast,  lifting  his  "  sightless  balls  " 
to  heaven,  and  pouring  his  whole  soul  into  his  tremulous  voice, 
—  "  but  Jesus  Christ  —  like  a  God  !  "  If  it  had  indeed  and  in 
truth  been  an  angel  of  light,  the  effect  could  scarcely  have  been 
more  divine. 


DAVID  CROCKETT 

[David  Crockett,  the  noted  American  pioneer  and  politician,  was 
born  in  Tennessee  in  I  786.  He  was  a  typical  backwoodsman,  un 
lettered  but  shrewd,  skillful  as  a  hunter,  and  fond  of  an  out-of-doors 
life.  He  served  under  Jackson  in  the  war  against  the  Creek  Indians, 
and  in  1826  was  elected  to  Congress.  At  the  close  of  his  third  term 
in  Congress  he  enlisted  with  the  Texan  forces  then  at  war  with 
Mexico,  and  in  1836  was  one  of  the  defenders  of  the  Alamo,  where, 
on  March  6th,  with  the  rest  of  the  garrison,  he  was  killed  by  Santa 
Anna's  troops.] 


8      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

THE  BEAR  HUNT 

In  the  morning  I  left  my  son  at  the  camp,  and  we  started 
on  towards  the  harricane,  and  when  we  had  went  about  a 
mile,  we  started  a  very  large  bear,  but  we  got  along  mighty 
slow  on  account  of  the  cracks  in  the  earth  occasioned  by  the 
earthquakes.  We,  however,  made  out  to  keep  in  hearing  of 
the  dogs  for  about  three  miles,  and  then  we  come  to  the  harri 
cane.  Here  we  had  to  quit  our  horses,  as  old  Nick  himself 
couldn't  have  got  through  it  without  sneaking  it  along  in  the 
form  that  he  put  on  to  make  a  fool  of  our  old  grandmother 
Eve.  By  this  time  several  of  my  dogs  had  got  tired  and  come 
back ;  but  we  went  ahead  on  foot  for  some  little  time  in  the 
harricane,  when  we  met  a  bear  coming  straight  to  us,  and  not 
more  than  twenty  or  thirty  yards  off.  I  started  my  tired  dogs 
after  him,  and  McDaniel  pursued  them,  and  I  went  on  to 
where  my  other  dogs  were.  I  had  seen  the  track  of  the  bear 
they  were  after,  and  I  knowed  he  was  a  screamer.  I  followed 
on  to  about  the  middle  of  the  harricane,  but  my  dogs  pursued 
him  so  close  that  they  made  him  climb  an  old  stump  about 
twenty  feet  high.  I  got  in  shooting  distance  of  him  and  fired, 
but  I  was  all  over  in  such  a  flutter  from  fatigue  and  running 
that  I  could  n't  hold  steady;  but,  however,  I  broke  his  shoulder, 
and  he  fell.  I  run  up  and  loaded  my  gun  as  quick  as  possible, 
and  shot  him  again  and  killed  him.  When  I  werjt  to  take  out 
my  knife  to  butcher  him,  I  found  that  I  had  lost  it  in  coming 
through  the  harricane.  The  vines  and  briars  was  so  thick  that 
I  would  sometimes  have  to  get  down  and  crawl  like  a  varment 
to  get  through  it  all ;  and  a  vine  had,  as  I  supposed,  caught 
in  the  handle  and  pulled  it  out.  While  I  was  standing  and 
studying  what  to  do,  my  friend  came  to  me.  He  had  followed 
my  trail  through  the  harricane,  and  had  found  my  knife,  which 
was  mighty  good  news  to  me,  as  a  hunter  hates  the  worst  in 


DAVID   CROCKETT  9 

the  world  to  lose  a  good  dog  or  any  part  of  his  hunting  tools. 
I  now  left  McDaniel  to  butcher  the  bear,  and  I  went  after  our 
horses  and  brought  them  as  near  as  the  nature  of  the  case 
would  allow.  I  then  took  our  bags  and  went  back  to  where 
he  was ;  and  when  we  skinned  the  bear,  we  fleeced  off  the  fat 
and  carried  it  to  our  horses  at  several  loads.  We  then  packed 
it  up  on  our  horses,  and  had  a  heavy  pack  of  it  on  each  one. 
\Ve  now  started  and  went  on  till  about  sunset,  when  I  con 
cluded  we  must  be  near  our  camp ;  so  I  hollered,  and  my  son 
answered  me,  and  we  moved  on  in  the  direction  to  the  camp. 
\Ve  had  gone  but  a  little  way  when  I  heard  my  dogs  make  a 
warm  start  again ;  and  I  jumped  down  from  my  horse  and 
gave  him  up  to  my  friend,  and  told  him  I  would  follow  them. 
He  went  on  to  the  camp,  and  I  went  ahead  after  my  dogs  with 
all  my  might  for  a  considerable  distance,  till  at  last  night  came 
on.  The  woods  were  very  rough  and  hilly  and  all  covered  over 
with  cane. 

I  now  was  compelled  to  move  more  slowly,  and  was  fre 
quently  falling  over  logs  and  into  the  cracks  made  by  the 
earthquakes,  so  I  was  very  much  afraid  I  would  break  my 
gun.  However,  I  went  on  about  three  miles,  when  I  came  to 
a  good  big  creek,  which  I  waded.  It  was  very  cold,  and  the 
creek  was  about  knee-deep ;  but  I  felt  no  great  inconvenience 
from  it  just  then,  as  I  was  ovenvet  with  sweat  from  running 
and  I  felt  hot  enough.  After  I  got  over  this  creek  and  out  of 
the  cane,  which  was  very  thick  on  all  our  creeks,  I  listened  for 
my  dogs.  I  found  they  had  either  treed  or  brought  the  bear  to 
a  stop,  as  they  continued  barking  in  the  same  place.  I  pushed 
on  as  near  in  the  direction  of  the  noise  as  I  could,  till  I  found 
the  hill  was  too  steep  for  me  to  climb,  and  so  I  backed  and 
went  down  the  creek  some  distance,  till  I  came  to  a  hollow, 
and  then  took  up  that,  till  I  came  to  a  place  wrhere  I  could 
climb  up  the  hill.  It  was  mighty  dark,  and  was  difficult  to  see 


10      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

my  way,  or  anything  else.  When  I  got  up  the  hill  I  found  I 
had  passed  the  dogs ;  and  so  I  turned  and  went  to  them.  I 
found,  when  I  got  there,  they  had  treed  the  bear  in  a  large 
forked  poplar,  and  it  was  setting  in  the  fork. 

I  could  see  the  lump,  but  not  plain  enough  to  shoot  with 
any  certainty,  as  there  was  no  moonlight ;  and  so  set  in  to 
hunting  for  some  dry  brush  to  make  me  a  light ;  but  I  could 
find  none,  though  I  could  find  that  the  ground  was  torn  mightily 
to  pieces  by  the  cracks. 

At  last  I  thought  I  could  shoot  by  guess  and  kill  him ;  so 
I  pointed  as  near  the  lump  as  I  could  and  fired  away.  But  the 
bear  did  n't  come ;  he  only  dumb  up  higher  and  got  out  on  a 
limb,  which  helped  me  to  see  him  better.  I  now  loaded  up 
again  and  fired,  but  this  time  he  didn't  move  at  all.  I  com 
menced  loading  for  a  third  fire,  but  the  first  thing  I  knowed, 
the  bear  was  down  among  my  dogs,  and  they  were  fighting  all 
around  me.  I  had  my  big  butcher  in  my  belt,  and  I  had  a  pair 
of  dressed  breeches  on.  So  I  took  out  my  knife,  and  stood, 
determined,  if  he  should  get  hold  of  me,  to  defend  myself  in 
the  best  way  I  could.  I  stood  there  for  some  time,  and  could 
now  and  then  see  a  white  dog  I  had,  but  the  rest  of  them,  and 
the  bear,  which  were  dark-colored,  I  could  n't  see  at  all,  it  was 
so  miserable  dark.  They  still  fought  around  me,  and  some 
times  within  three  feet  of  me ;  but  at  last  the  bear  got  down 
into  one  of  the  cracks  that  the  earthquakes  had  made  in  the 
ground,  about  four  feet  deep,  and  I  could  tell  the  biting  end 
of  him  by  the  hollering  of  my  dogs.  So  I  took  my  gun  and 
pushed  the  muzzle  of  it  about,  till  I  thought  I  had  it  against 
the  main  part  of  his  body,  and  fired ;  but  it  happened  to  be 
only  the  fleshy  part  of  his  foreleg.  With  this  he  jumped  out 
of  the  crack,  and  he  and  the  dogs  had  another  hard  fight 
around  me,  as  before.  At  last,  however,  they  forced  him  back 
into  the  crack  again,  as  he  was  when  I  had  shot. 


DAVID   CROCKETT  1 1 

I  had  laid  down  my  gun  in  the  dark,  and  I  now  began  to 
hunt  for  it ;  and,  while  hunting,  I  got  hold  of  a  pole,  and  I 
concluded  I  would  punch  him  awhile  with  that.  I  did  so,  and 
when  I  would  punch  him  the  dogs  would  jump  in  on  him, 
when  he  would  bite  them  badly,  and  they  would  jump  out 
again.  I  concluded,  as  he  would  take  punching  so  patiently, 
it  might  be  that  he  would  lie  still  enough  for  me  to  get  down 
in  the  crack  and  feel  slowly  along  till  I  could  find  the  right 
place  to  give  him  a  dig  with  my  butcher.  So  I  got  down,  and 
my  dogs  got  in  before  him  and  kept  his  head  towards  them, 
till  I  got  along  easily  up  to  him ;  and  placing  my  hand  on  his 
rump,  felt  for  his  shoulder,  just  behind  where  I  intended  to 
stick  him.  I  -made  a  lunge  with  my  long  knife,  and  fortunately 
struck  him  right  through  the'  heart,  at  which  he  just  sank  down, 
and  I  crawled  out  in  a  hurry.  In  a  little  time  my  dogs  all  come 
out  too,  and  seemed  satisfied,  which  was  the  way  they  always 
had  of  telling  me  that  they  had  finished  him. 

I  suffered  very  much  that  night  with  cold,  as  my  leather 
breeches  and  everything  else  I  had  on  was  wet  and  frozen. 
But  I  managed  to  get  my  bear  out  of  this  crack  after  several 
hard  trials,  and  so  I  butchered  him  and  laid  down  to  try  to 
sleep.  But  my  fire  was  very  bad,  and  I  could  n't  find  anything 
that  would  burn  well  to  make  it  any  better;  and  so  I  concluded 
I  should  freeze  if  I  did  n't  warm  myself  in  some  way  by  exer 
cise.  So  I  got  up  and  hollered  awhile,  and  then  I  would  just 
jump  up  and  down  with  all  my  might  and  throw  myself  into 
all  sorts  of  motions.  But  all  this  would  n't  do ;  for  my  blood 
was  now  getting  cold,  and  the  chills  coming  all  over  me.  I  was 
so  tired  too  that  I  could  hardly  walk ;  but  I  thought  I  would 
do  the  best  I  could  to  save  my  life,  and  then  if  I  died,  nobody 
would  be  to  blame.  So  I  went  up  to  a  tree  about  two  feet 
through,  and  not  a  limb  on  it  for  thirty  feet,  and  I  would  climb 
up  to  the  limbs  and  then  lock  my  arms  together  around  it  and 


12      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

slide  down  to  the  bottom  again.  This  would  make  the  inside 
of  my  legs  and  arms  feel  mighty  warm  and  good.  I  continued 
this  till  daylight  in  the  morning,  and  how  often  I  climbed  up 
my  tree  and  slid  down  I  don't  know,  but  I  reckon  at  least  a 
hundred  times. 

In  the  morning  I  got  my  bear  hung  up  so  as  to  be  safe,  and 
then  set  out  to  hunt  for  my  camp.  I  found  it  after  a  while, 
and  McDaniel  and  my  son  were  very  much  rejoiced  to  see  me 
get  back,  for  they  were  about  to  give  me  up  for  lost.  We  got 
our  breakfasts,  and  then  secured  our  meat  by  building  a  high 
scaffold  and  covering  it  over.  We  had  no  fear  of  its  spoiling, 
for  the  weather  was  so  cold  that  it  couldn't. 

We  now  started  after  my  other  bear,  which  had  caused  me 
so  much  trouble  and  suffering ;  and  before  we  got  him  we  got 
a  start  after  another,  and  took  him  also.  We  went  on  to  the 
creek  I  had  crossed  the  night  before,  and  camped,  and  then 
went  to  where  my  bear  was  that  I  had  killed  in  the  crack. 
When  we  examined  the  place,  McDaniel  said  he  would  n't  have 
gone  into  it,  as  I  did,  for  all  the  bears  in  the  woods. 

We  then  took  the  meat  down  to  our  camp  and  salted  it,  and 
also  the  last  one  we  had  killed ;  intending  in  the  morning  to 
make  a  hunt  in  the  harricane  again. 

We  prepared  for  resting  that  night,  and  I  can  assure  the 
reader  I  was  in  need  of  it.  We  had  laid  down  by  our  fire,  and 
about  ten  o'clock  there  came  a  most  terrible  earthquake,  which 
shook  the  earth  so  that  we  rocked  about  like  we  had  been  in  a 
cradle.  We  were  very  mucjj  alarmed ;  for  though  we  were 
accustomed  to  feel  earthquakes,  we  were  now  right  in  the 
region  which  had  been  torn  to  pieces  by  them  in  1812,  and  we 
thought  it  might  take  a  notion  and  swallow  us  up,  like  the  big 
fish  did  Jonah. 

In  the  morning  we  packed  up  and  moved  to  the  harricane, 
where  we  made  another  camp,  and  turned  out  that  evening 


JOHN  JAMES  AUDUBON  13 

and  killed  a  very  large  bear,  which  made  eight  we  had  now 
killed  in  this  hunt. 

The  next  morning  we  entered  the  harricane  again,  and  in  a 
little  or  no  time  my  dogs  were  in  full  cry.  We  pursued  them, 
and  soon  came  to  a  thick  canebrake,  in  which  they  had  stopped 
their  bear.  We  got  up  close  to  him,  as  the  cane  was  so  thick 
that  we  could  n't  see  more  than  a  few  feet.  Here  I  made  my 
friend  hold  the  cane  a  little  open  with  his  gun  till  I  shot  the 
bear,  which  was  a  mighty  large  one.  I  killed  him  dead  in  his 
tracks.  We  got  him  out  and  butchered  him,  and  in  a  little  time 
started  another  and  killed  him,  which  now  made  ten  we  had 
killed ;  and  we  knowed  we  could  n't  pack  any  more  home,  as 
we  had  only  five  horses  along ;  therefore  we  returned  to  the 
camp  and  salted  up  all  our  meat,  to  be  ready  for  a  start  home 
ward  next  morning. 

The  morning  came,  and  we  packed  our  horses  with  meat, 
and  had  as  much  as  they  could  possibly  carry,  and  sure  enough 
cut  out  for  home.  It  was  about  thirty  miles,  and  we  reached 
home  the  second  day.  I  had  now  accommodated  my  neighbor 
with  meat  enough  to  do  him,  and  had  killed  in  all,  up  to  that 
time,  fifty-eight  bears  during  the  fall  and  winter. 

As  soon  as  the  time  come  for  them  to  quit  their  houses  and 
come  out  again  in  the  spring,  I  took  a  notion  to  hunt  a  little 
more,  and  in  about  one  month  I  killed  forty-seven  more,  which 
made  one  hundred  and  five  bears  which  I  had  killed  in  less 
than  one  year  from  that  time. 

JOHN  JAMES  AUDUBON 

[John  James  Audubon  was  born  near  New  Orleans  in  1780  of 
French  and  Spanish  extraction.  I?e  was  educated  in  Paris,  where 
he  had  lessons  in  painting  from  the  celebrated  painter  J.  L.  David. 
Returning  to  America  in  1 798,  he  settled  on  an  estate  of  his  father's 
near  Philadelphia,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  study  of  natural 


14      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

history,  and  especially  to  the  drawing  of  birds.  Afterwards  he  was 
for  a  time  a  merchant  in  various  Southern  cities.  Finally  he  gave 
up  all  regular  business  pursuits  and  spent  his  time  roaming  hither 
and  thither  in  the  forests  making  observations  of  animal  and  of  bird 
life.  His  greatest  production,  "  The  Birds  of  America,"  published 
from  1 83 1  to  1 839,  consisted  of  five  volumes  of  biographies  of  birds 
and  four  volumes  of  portraits  of  birds,  the  latter  volumes  containing 
over  four  hundred  drawings,  colored  and  life-size.] 


EARLY  SETTLERS  ALONG  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

Although  every  European  traveler  who  has  glided  down  the 
Mississippi  at  the  rate  of  ten  miles  an  hour  has  told  his  tale  of 
the  squatters,  yet  none  has  given  any  other  account  of  them 
than  that  they  are  "  a  sallow,  sickly-looking  sort  of  miserable 
being,"  living  in  swamps  and  subsisting  on  pignuts,  Indian 
corn,  and  bear's  flesh.  It  is  obvious,  however,  that  none  but  a 
person  acquainted  with  their  history,  manners,  and  condition 
can  give  any  real  information  respecting  them. 

The  individuals  who  become  squatters  choose  that  sort  of 
life  of  their  own  free  will.  They  mostly  remove  from  other 
parts  of  the  United  States  after  finding  that  land  has 
too  high  in  price,  and  they  are  persons  who,  having- 
strong  and  hardy  children,  are  anxious  to  enable  them  to  pro 
vide  for  themselves.  They  have  heard  from  good  authorities 
that  the  country  extending  along  the  great  streams  of  the  ^est 
is  of  all  parts  of  the  Union  the  richest  in  its  soil,  the  growth  of 
its  timber,  and  the  abundance  of  its  game ;  that,  besides,  the 
Mississippi  is  the  great  road  to  and  from  all  the  markets  in 
the  world ;  and  that  every  vessel  borne  by  its  waters  affords 
to  settlers  some  chance  of  selling  their  commodities,  or  of  ex 
changing  them  for  others.  To  these  recommendations  is  added 
another,  of  even  greater  weight  with  persons  of  the  above 
denomination,  namely,  the  prospect  of  being  able  to  settle  on 


JOHN  JAMES   AUDUBOX  15 

land,  and  perhaps  to  hold  it  for  a  number  of  years,  without 
purchase,  rent,  or  tax  of  any  kind.  How  many  thousands  of 
individuals  in  all  parts  of  the  globe  would  gladly  try  their  for 
tune  with  such  prospects  I  leave  to  you,  reader,  to  determine. 

As  I  am  not  disposed  too  highly  to  color  the  picture  which  I 
am  about  to  submit  to  your  inspection,  instead  of  pitching  on 
individuals  who  have  removed  from  our  eastern  boundaries, 
and  of  whom  certainly  there  are  a  good  number,  I  shall  intro 
duce  to  you  the  members  of  a  family  from  Virginia,  first  giving 
you  an  idea  of  their  condition  in  that  country  previous  to  their 
migration  to  the  West.  The  land  which  they  and  their  an 
cestors  have  possessed  for  a  hundred  years,  having  been  con 
stantly  forced  to  produce  crops  of  one  kind  or  another,  is 
completely  worn  out.  It  exhibits  only  a  superficial  layer  of  red 
clay,  cut  up  by  deep  ravines,  through  which  much  of  the  soil 
has  been  conveyed  to  some  more  fortunate  neighbor  residing 
in  a  yet  rich  and  beautiful  valley.  Their  strenuous  efforts  to 
render  it  productive  have  failed.  They  dispose  of  everything 
too  cumbrous  or  expensive  for  them  to  remove,  retaining  only 
a  few  horses,  a  servant  or  two,  and  such  implements  of  hus 
bandry  and  other  articles  as  may  be  necessary  on  their  journey 
or  useful  when  they  arrive  at  the  spot  of  their  choice. 

I  think  I  see  them  harnessing  their  horses  and  attaching 
them  to  their  \yagons,  which  are  already  filled  with  bedding, 
provisions,  and  the  younger  children  ;  while  on  their  outside  are 
fastened  spinning  wheels  and  looms,  and  a  bucket  filled  with 
tar  and  tallow  swings  betwixt  the  hind  wheels.  Several  axes 
are  secured  to  the  bolster,  and  the  feeding-trough  of  the  horses 
contains  pots,  kettles,  and  pans.  The  servant  now  becomes  a 
driver,  riding  the  near  saddled  horse ;  the  wife  is  mounted  on 
another ;  the  worthy  husband  shoulders  his  gun ;  and  his  sons, 
clad  in  plain,  substantial  homespun,  drive  the  cattle  ahead  and 
lead  the  procession,  followed  by  the  hounds  and  other  dogs. 


16      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Their  day's  journey  is  short  and  not  agreeable.  The  cattle, 
stubborn  or  wild,  frequently  leave  the  road  for  the  woods, 
giving  the  travelers  much  trouble ;  the  harness  of  the  horses 
here  and  there  gives  way,  and  immediate  repair  is  needed. 
A  basket  which  has  accidentally  dropped  must  be  gone  after, 
for  nothing  that  they  have  can  be  spared.  The  roads  are  bad, 
and  now  and  then  all  hands  are  called  to  push  on  the  wagon  or 
prevent  it  from  upsetting.  Yet  by  sunset  they  have  proceeded 
perhaps  twenty  miles.  Fatigued,  all  assemble  around  the  fire 
which  has  been  lighted ;  supper  is  prepared,  and  a  camp  being 
run  up,  there  they  pass  the  night. 

Days  and  weeks,  nay  months,  of  unremitting  toil  pass  before 
they  gain  the  end  of  the  journey.  They  have  crossed  both  the 
Carolinas,  Georgia,  and  Alabama.  They  have  been  traveling 
from  the  beginning  of  May  to  that  of  September,  and  with 
heavy  hearts  they  traverse  the  neighborhood  of  the  Mississippi. 
But  now,  arrived  on  the  banks  of  the  broad  stream,  they  gaze 
in  amazement  on  the  dark,  deep  woods  around  them.  Boats  of 
various  kinds  they  see  gliding  downward  with  the  current,  while 
others  slowly  ascend  against  it.  A  few  inquiries  are  made  at 
the  nearest  dwelling,  and  assisted  by  the  inhabitants  with  their 
boats  and  canoes,  they  at  once  cross  the  river  and  select  their 
place  of  habitation. 

The  exhalations  rising  from  the  swamps  and  morasses 
around  them  have  a  powerful  effect  on  these  new  settlers,  but 
all  are  intent  on  preparing  for  the  winter.  A  small  patch  of 
ground  is  cleared  by  the  ax  and  fire,  a  temporary  cabin  is 
erected ;  to  each  of  the  cattle  is  attached  a  bell  before  it  is  let 
loose  into  the  neighboring  canebrake,  and  the  horses  remain 
about  the  house,  where  they  find  sufficient  food  at  that  season. 
The  first  trading  boat  that  stops  at  their  landing  enables  them 
to  provide  themselves  with  some  flour,  fishhooks,  and  ammuni 
tion,  as  well  as  other  commodities.  The  looms  are  mounted, 


JOHN   JAMES   AUDUBON  I/ 

the  spinning  wheels  soon  furnish  yarn,  and  in  a  few  weeks  the 
family  throw  off  their  ragged  clothes  and  array  themselves  in 
suits  adapted  to  the  climate.  The  father  and  sons  meanwhile 
have  sown  turnips  and  other  vegetables,  and  from  some  Ken 
tucky  flatboat  a  supply  of  live  poultry  has  been  purchased. 

October  tinges  the  leaves  of  the  forest ;  the  morning  dews 
are  heavy,  the  days  hot  and  the  nights  chill ;  and  the  unaccli- 
matized  family  in  a  few  days  are  attacked  with  ague.  The 
lingering  disease  almost  prostrates  their  whole  faculties.  For 
tunately  the  unhealthy  season  soon  passes  over,  and  the 
hoarfrosts  make  their  appearance.  Gradually  each  individual 
recovers  strength.  The  largest  ash  trees  are  felled,  their  trunks 
are  cut,  split,  and  corded  in  front  of  the  building ;  a  large  fire 
is  lighted  at  night  on  the  edge  of  the  water;  and  soon  a 
steamer  calls  to  purchase  the  wood  and  thus  add  to  their 
comforts  during  the  winter.  This  first  fruit  of  their  industry 
imparts  new  courage  to  them ;  their  exertions  multiply  ;  and 
when  spring  returns  the  place  has  a  cheerful  look.  Venison, 
bear's  flesh,  and  turkeys,  ducks,  and  geese,  with  now  and  then 
some  fish,  have  served  to  keep  up  their  strength,  and  now  their 
enlarged  field  is  planted  with  corn,  potatoes,  and  pumpkins. 
Their  stock  of  cattle  too  has  augmented ;  the  steamer  which 
now  stops  there,  as  if  by  preference,  buys  a  calf  or  pig  together 
with  their  wood.  Their  store  of  provisions  is  renewed,  and 
brighter  rays  of  hope  enliven  their  spirits. 

\Yho  is  he  of  the  settlers  on  the  Mississippi  that  cannot 
realize  some  profit  ?  Truly  none  \vho  is  industrious.  When  the 
autumnal  months  return,  all  are  better  prepared  to  encounter 
the  ague  which  then  prevails.  Substantial  food,  suitable  cloth 
ing,  and  abundant  firing  repel  its  attacks ;  and  before  another 
twelvemonth  has  elapsed  the  family  is  naturalized.  The  sons 
have  by  this  time  discovered  a  swamp  covered  writh  excellent 
timber,  and  as  they  have  seen  many  great  rafts  of  saw  logs, 


1 8      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

bound  for  the  mills  of  New  Orleans,  floating  past  their  dwelling, 
they  resolve  to  try  the  success  of  a  little  enterprise.  Their 
industry  and  prudence  have  already  enhanced  their  credit.  A 
few  cross-saws  are  purchased,  and  some  broad-wheeled  "  carry- 
logs  "  are  made  by  themselves.  Log  after  log  is  hauled  to  the 
bank  of  the  river,  and  in  a  short  time  their  first  raft  is  made  on 
the  shore  and  loaded  with  cordwood.  When  the  next  freshet 
sets  it  afloat,  it  is  secured  by  long  grapevines  or  cables  until, 
the  proper  time  being  arrived,  the  husband  and  sons  embark 
on  it  and  float  down  the  mighty  stream. 

After  encountering  many  difficulties  they  arrive  in  safety  at 
New  Orleans,  where  they  dispose  of  their  stock,  the  money 
obtained  for  which  may  be  said  to  be  all  profit,  supply  them 
selves  with  such  articles  as  may  add  to  their  convenience  or 
comfort,  and  with  light  hearts  procure  a  passage  on  the  upper 
deck  of  a  steamer,  at  a  very  cheap  rate  on  account  of  the 
benefit  of  their  labor  in  taking  in  wood  or  otherwise. 

And  now  the  vessel  approaches  their  home.  See  the  joyous 
mother  and  daughters  as  they  stand  on  the  bank !  A  store  of 
vegetables  lies  around  them,  a  large  tub  of  fresh  milk  is  at  their 
feet,  and  in  their  hands  are  plates  filled  with  rolls  of  butter. 
As  the  steamer  stops,  three  broad  straw  hats  are  waved  from 
the  upper  deck,  and  soon  husband  and  wife,  brothers  and 
sisters,  are  in  each  other's  embrace.  The  boat  carries  off  the 
provisions  for  which  value  has  been  left,  and  as  the  captain 
issues  his  orders  for  putting  on  the  steam,  the  happy  family 
enter  their  humble  dwelling.  The  husband  gives  his  bag  of 
dollars  to  the  wife,  while  the  sons  present  some  token  of  affec 
tion  to  the  sisters.  Surely,  at  such  a  moment,  the  squatters  are 
richly  repaid  for  all  their  labors. 

Every  successive  year  has  increased  their  savings.  They  now 
possess  a  large  stock  of  horses,  cows,  and  hogs,  with  abun 
dance  of  provisions  and  domestic  comfort  of  every  kind.  The 


WILLIAM    ELLIOTT  19 

daughters  have  been  married  to  the  sons  of  neighboring 
squatters,  and  have  gained  sisters  to  themselves  by  the  marriage 
of  their  brothers.  The  government  secures  to  the  family  the 
lands  on  which,  twenty  years  before,  they  settled  in  poverty  and 
sickness.  Larger  buildings  are  erected  on  piles,  secure  from 
inundations ;  where  a  single  cabin  once  stood,  a  neat  village 
is  now  to  be  seen ;  warehouses,  stores,  and  workshops  increase 
the  importance  of  the  place.  The  squatters  live  respected,  and 
in  due  time  die  regretted  by  all  who  knew  them. 

Thus  are  the  vast  frontiers  of  our  country  peopled,  and  thus 
does  cultivation,  year  after  year,  extend  over  the  western  wilds. 
Time  will  no  doubt  be,  when  the  great  valley  of  the  Mississippi, 
still  covered  with  primeval  forests  interspersed  with  swamps, 
will  smile  with  cornfields  and  orchards,  while  crowded  cities  will 
rise  at  intervals  along  its  banks,  and  enlightened  nations  will 
rejoice  in  the  bounties  of  Providence. 

WILLIAM   ELLIOTT 

[William  Elliott  was  born  in  Beaufort,  South  Carolina,  in  1 788. 
After  graduating  from  Harvard,  he  returned  to  South  Carolina. 
Except  for  some  early  incursions  into  politics,  he  chiefly  devoted 
himself  to  the  management  of  his  estates,  and,  as  a  writer  and  lec 
turer  on  agricultural  and  other  subjects,  became  widely  known.  He 
contributed  to  one  of  the  newspapers  of  Charleston  the  series  of 
sporting  sketches  which  were  collected  and  published  in  1 846  under 
the  title  of  "  Carolina  Sports  by  Land  and  Water."  He  died  in 
Charleston,  South  Carolina,  in  1863.] 

A  DEER  HUNT 

It  was  a  glorious  winter's  day  —  sharp,  but  bracing.  The  sun 
looked  forth  with  dazzling  brightness,  as  he  careered  through  a 
cloudless  sky ;  and  his  rays  came  glancing  back  from  many  an 
ice-covered  lagoon  that  lay  scattered  over  the  face  of  the  ground. 


20      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

The  moan  of  an  expiring  northwester  was  faintly  heard  from 
the  tops  of  the  magnificent  forest  pines.  Three  sportsmen, 
while  it  was  yet  early,  met  at  their  trysting  place,  to  perpetrate 
a  raid  against  the  deer!  They  were  no  novices,  those  hunts 
men  ;  they  had  won  trophies  in  many  a  sylvan  war,  and  they 
now  took  the  field  "  of  malice  prepense  "  with  all  the  appliances 
of  destruction  at  their  beck  —  practiced  drivers  of  the  pack, 
often  proved,  and  now  refreshed  by  three  days'  rest.  Brief  was 
their  interchange  of  compliment ;  they  felt  that  such  a  day  was 
not  to  be  trifled  away  in  talk ;  and  they  hallooed  their  hounds 
impatiently  into  the  drive  —  yet  not  as  greenhorns  would  have 
done.  "  Keep  clear  of  the  swamps "  was  the  order  of  the 
drivers  — -"leave  the  close  covers  —  ride  not  where  the  ice 
crackles  under  the  horse's  hoof,  but  look  closely  into  the 
sheltered  knolls,  where  you  will  find  the  deer  sunning  them 
selves  after  the  last  night's  frost."  The  effect  of  this  order  was 
soon  evident,  for  in  the  second  knoll  entered  by  the  hounds  a 
herd  of  deer  were  found  thawing  themselves  in  the  first  beams 
'  of  the  ascending  sun.  Ho !  what  a  burst  1  with  what  fury  the 
hounds  dash  in  among  them !  Now  they  sweep  along  the 
thickets  that  skirt  the  drive  and  climb  the  summit  of  that  ele 
vated  piny  ridge  —  destined  one  day  to  become  a  summer 
settlement  and  to  bear  the  name  of  -  — .  But  not  unfore 
seen  or  unprovided  for  was  the  run  which  the  deer  had  taken. 
Frisky  Geordy  was  in  their  path,  and  crack  went  the  sound  of 
his  gun,  and  loud  and  vaunting  was  the  twang  of  his  horn  that 
followed  the  explosion !  And  now  the  frozen  earth  reechoed  to 
the  tramp  of  horses'  hoofs,  as  the  huntsmen  hurried  to  the  call 
that  proclaims  that  a  deer  has  fallen.  There  was  Geordy,  his 
gun  against  a  pine,  his  knee  upon  the  still  heaving  flank  of  a 
pricket  buck,  his  right  hand  clenched  upon  his  dripping  knife, 
his  left  flourishing  a  horn,  which  ever  and  anon  was  given  to 
his  mouth  and  filled  the  air  with  its  boastful  notes. 


WILLIAM   ELLIOTT  21 

"  Halloo,  Geordy !  you  have  got  him  fast,  I  see.  Where  are 
the  dogs  ? " 

"  Gone,"  said  Geordy. 

"  There  's  Ruler  in  the  east  —  what 's  he  after  ?  " 

"  A  deer,"  says  Geordy. 

"  And  Rouser  to  the  south  —  what 's  he  after  ?  " 

"  Another  deer,"  says  Geordy. 

"  And  Nimrod  to  the  southwest —  I  need  not  ask  what  he  's 
after,  for  he  follows  nothing  but  deer.  Your  second  barrel 
snapped,  of  course  ?  " 

"  I  don't  say  that,"  says  Geordy ;  "  I  had  wounded  the  six 
last  deer  I'd  fired  at,  so  I  thought  I'd  kill  one  to-day,  and 
while  I  looked  to  see  if  that  was  really  dead  the  others  slipped 
by  me." 

"  Done  like  a  sportsman,  Geordy ;  one  dead  deer  is  worth  a 
dozen  crippled  ones.  I  remember  once  your  powder  was  too 
weak ;  and  next,  your  shot  were  too  small ;  and  next,  your  aim 
was  somewhat  wild ;  and  one  went  off  bored  of  an  ear,  and 
another  nicked  of  a  tail.  You  are  bound  to  set  up  an  infirmary 
across  the  river  for  the  dismembered  deer  you  have  dispatched 
there !  You  have  done  well  to  kill  —  let  it  grow  into  a  habit. 
Nimrod  to  the  southwest,  said  you  ?  That  rascal  is  a  born 
economist ;  and  not  a  foot  will  he  budge  in  pursuit  of  a  living 
deer  after  your  horn  has  told  him  there  is  venison  in  the  rear ! 
Ruler  will  drive  his  deer  across  the  river ;  Rouser,  to  the 
marshes.  Nimrod's  quarry  is  the  only  one  likely  to  halt  and 
give  us  another  chance." 

And  sure  enough,  there  came  Nimrod  trotting  back  on  his 
track,  his  nose  cocked  up  in  air  as  if  to  indorse  and  verify  the 
inferences  of  his  ear,  his  tail  curled  and  standing  out  from  his 
body  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees. 

"This  is  the  safe  play — hang  up  the  deer — sound  your  horn 
till  the  hounds  come  in  from  their  several  chases  —  and  then 


22      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN   SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

for  Nimrod's  lead  !  to  Chapman's  bays,  I  think !  —  there  are 
some  sheltered  nooks  in  which  they  will  stop  and  bask  when 
they  find  themselves  unpursued." 

"  I  '11  go  in  with  the  boys,"  says  Loveleap,  with  an  uncon 
cerned  air,  but  a  sly  twinkle  of  the  eye,  which  did  not  escape 
his  comrades. 

"  As  you  like.    Geordy  and  I  will  mind  the  stands." 

Some  time  was  lost  before  the  hounds  could  be  drawn  from 
their  several  chases ;  yet,  as  emulation  did  not  "  prick  them 
on,"  they  came  the  sooner  for  being  scattered.  Loveleap  heads 
the  drivers,  and  it  was  just  what  we  had  anticipated,  when, 
before  a  single  dog  had  given  tongue,  we  heard  him  fire ;  then 
came  a  burst,  and  then  a  second  barrel ;  but  to  our  great 
surprise  no  horn  announced  the  expected  success.  The  report 
of  that  gun  went  unquestioned  in  our  sporting  circle ;  it  was 
in  a  manner  axiomatic  in  woodcraft  mysteries,  and  passed 
current  with  all  who  heard  it  for  thus  much  —  "a  deer  is 
killed."  Loveleap  did  an  extraordinary  thing  that  day  —  he 
missed  \  But  the  drivers  could  not  understand  and  the  hounds 
would  not  believe  it ;  so  they  rushed  madly  away  in  pursuit,  as 
if  it  was  not  possible  for  the  quarry  long  to  escape. 

"  Push  on,"  says  Geordy,  "  they  make  for  the  river ! "  and 
away  we  went.  We  reined  in  for  a  minute  at  the  ford ;  and 
finding  that  they  had  already  outstripped  us  and  were  bearing 
down  for  Chapman's  fort, —  a  mile  to  the  west  of  our  position, 
—  we  struck  across  for  the  marshes  south  of  us,  where  we 
might,  if  he  was  a  young  deer,  intercept  him  on  his  return  to 
his  accustomed  haunts.  In  an  old  buck  we  had  no  chance ;  he 
is  sure  to  set  a  proper  value  on  his  life,  and  seldom  stops  until 
he  has  put  a  river  between  his  pursuer  and  himself. 

Taking  advantage  of  a  road  that  lay  in  our  way,  we  soon 
cleared  the  woods  and  entered  an  old  field  that  skirted  the 
marsh.  It  was  a  large  waving  plain  of  rank  broom  grass, 


WILLIAM   ELLIOTT  23 

chequered  here  and  there  by  strips  of  myrtle  and  marsh 
mallows. 

"  So  far,  Geordy,"  said  I,  "  we  have  kept  one  track ;  now 
let  us  separate.  The  hounds  are  out  of  hearing,  and  we  have 
little  chance  of  any  game  but  such  as  we  may  rouse  without 
their  help.  How  delightfully  sheltered  is  this  spot!  how  com 
pletely  is  it  shut-  in  by  that  semicircle  of  woods  from  the  sweep 
of  the  northwest  winds !  How  genially  the  sun  pours  down 
upon  it !  Depend  upon  it,  we  shall  find  some  luxurious  rogues 
basking  in  this  warm  nook,  for,  next  to  your  Englishman,  a 
deer  is  the  greatest  epicure  alive !  Now,  then,  by  separate 
tracks  let  us  make  across  the  old  field ;  a  blast  of  the  horn  will 
bring  us  together  when  we  reach  the  marsh." 

By  separate  tracks  then  we  moved,  and  had  not  advanced 
two  hundred  yards,  when  crack  went  Geordy's  gun.  I  looked 
in  the  direction  of  the  report,  and  his  head  only  was  visible 
above  the  sea  of  marsh  mallows.  The  direction  of  his  face  I 
could  see,  and  that  was  pointed  toward  me.  Toward  me,  then, 
thought  I,  runs  the  deer.  I  reined  in  my  horse  and  turned  his 
head  in  that  direction.  It  was  such  a  thickly  woven  mass  of 
mallows  and  myrtle  —  high  as  my  shoulders  as  I  sat  in  the 
saddle  —  that  there  was  little  hope  of  being  able  to  see  the 
game.  I  trusted  to  my  ear  to  warn  me  of  his  approach,  and 
soon  heard  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  and  the  sharp,  quick  leap 
which  mark  the  movement  of  a  deer  at  speed.  I  saw  him  not 
until  he  appeared  directly  under  my  horse's  nose,  in  act  to  leap ; 
he  vaulted,  and  would  have  dropped  upon  my  saddle  had  he 
not  seen  the  horse  while  yet  poised  in  air,  and,  by  an  effort 
like  that  of  the  tumbler  who  throws  a  somersault,  twisted  him 
self  suddenly  to  my  right.  He  grazed  my  knee  in  his  descent ; 
and  as  he  touched  the  earth  I  brought  my  gun  down,  pistol- 
fashion,  with  a  rapid  twitch,  and  sent  the  whole  charge  through 
his  backbone.  It  was  so  instantaneous  —  so  like  a  flash  of 


24      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

lightning  —  that  I  could  scarcely  credit  it  when  I  saw  the  deer 
twirling  and  turning  over  at  my  horse's  heels.  Dismounting 
to  secure  him,  it  was  some  time  before  his  muscular  action 
was  sufficiently  overcome  to  allow  me  to  use  my  knife.  He 
struggled  and  kicked ;  I  set  down  my  gun,  the  better  to  master 
him.  In  the  midst  of  my  employment,  crack  went  Geordy's 
second  barrel,  nearer  than  the  first,  and  "  mind\  mind\" 
followed  the  discharge.  Before  I  could  drop  my  knife  and  gain 
my  feet  another  deer  was  upon  me !  He  followed  directly  in 
the  track  of  the  former  and  passed  between  my  horse  and  me, 
so  near  that  I  might  have  bayoneted  him  !  Where  was  my  gun  ? 
Lost  in  the  broom  grass  !  What  a  trial !  I  looked  all  around  in 
an  instant,  and  spying  it  where  it  lay,  caught  it  eagerly  up  — 
the  deer  had  disappeared !  It  flashed  across  me  that  underneath 
these  myrtles  the  limbs  excluded  from  the  sun  had  decayed, 
and  that  in  the  vistas  thus  formed  a  glimpse  of  the  deer  might 
yet  be  gained.  In  an  instant  I  am  on  my  knees,  darting  the 
most  anxious  glances  along  the  vista ;  the  flash  of  a  tail  is  seen 
—  I  fire  —  a  struggle  is  heard  —  I  press  forward  through  the 
interlacing  branches  —  and  to  my  joy  and  surprise,  another  deer 
is  mine  \  Taking  him  by  the  legs,  I  drag  him  to  the  spot  where 
the  other  lay.  Then  it  was  my  turn  to  sound  a  "vaunty"  peal! 
Geordy  pealed  in  answer,  and  soon  appeared  dragging  a  deer 
of  his  own  (having  missed  one  of  those  that  I  had  killed). 
Three  deer  were  started  —  they  were  all  at  our  feet  —  and 
that  without  the  aid  of  a  dog  \  It  was  the  work  of  five  minutes  ! 
We  piled  them  in  a  heap,  covered  them  with  branches  and 
myrtle  bushes,  and  tasked  our  horns  to  the  uttermost  to  recall 
the  field.  One  by  one  the  hounds  came  in,  smelt  at  the  myrtle 
bushes,  seemed  satisfied,  though  puzzled,  wagged  their  tails, 
and  coiling  themselves  each  in  his  proper  bed,  lay  down  to 
sleep.  Yet  had  any  stranger  approached  that  myrtle-covered 
mound  every  back  would  have  bristled,  and  a  fierce  cry  of 


WILLIAM   ELLIOTT  25 

defiance  would  have  broken  forth  from  ever}'  tongue,  then 
so  mute. 

At  last  came  Loveleap,  fagged,  and  somewhat  fretted  by  his 
ill  success. 

"  I  have  been  blowing  till  I've  split  my  wind,  and  not  a  dog 
has  come  to  my  horn.  How  came  you  thrown  out  ?  and  why 
have  you  kept  such  an  incessant  braying  of  horns  ?  Why,  how 
is  this  ?  the  dogs  are  here  ?  " 

"  Yes !  they  have  shown  their  sense  in  coming  to  us ;  there  "s 
been  butchery  hereabouts  !  " 

"One  of  P 's  cattle  killed  by  the  runaways,  I  suppose." 

"  Will  you  lend  us  your  boy  to  bring  a  cart  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Certainly,''  says  Loveleap ;  "  it  will  make  such  a  feast  for 
the  dogs  ;  but  where  is  the  COWT  ? '' 

"Here/"  says  Geordy,  kicking  off  the  myrtle  screen  and 
revealing  to  the  sight  of  his  astonished  comrade  our  three  layers 
of  venison  \  Oh,  you  should  have  seen  Loveleap's  face ! 

The  cart  is  brought,  and  our  four  deer  are  soon  on  their  way 
home.  Do  you  think  we  accompanied  them  ?  No  !  We  were  so 
merciless  as  to  meditate  still  further  havoc.  The  day  was  so 
little  spent  —  and  as  our  hands  were  in,  and  there  was  just 
in  the  next  drive  an  overgrown  old  buck  who  often  had  the 
insolence  to  baffle  us  —  no  !  we  must  take  a  drive  at  him  ! 
Again  the  hounds  are  thrown  into  cover,  headed  by  our  remain 
ing  driver ;  but  in  the  special  object  of  our  move  we  failed  — 
the  buck  had  decamped.  Still,  the  fortune  of  the  day  attended 
us;  and  an  inquisitive  old  turkey  gobbler,  having  ventured  to 
peep  at  Geordy  where  he  lay  in  ambush,  was  sprawled  by  a 
shot  from  his  gun  and  was  soon  seen  dangling  from  his 
saddlebow. 

This  closed  our  hunt.  And  now  that  we  have  a  moment's 
breathing  time,  tell  me,  brother  sportsmen  who  may  chance  to 
read  this  veritable  history,  has  it  ever  been  your  fortune,  in  a 


26      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

single  day's  hunt  and  as  the  spoils  of  two  gunners  only,  to 
bring  home  four  deer  and  a  wild  turkey  ?  Ye  gastronomes ! 
who  relish  the  proceeds  of  a  hunt  better  than  its  toils  and 
perils  —  a  glance  at  that  larder,  if  you  please !  Look  at  that 
fine  bird,  so  carefully  hung  up  by  the  neck ;  his  spurs  are  an 
inch  and  a  half  in  length,  his  beard  eight  inches ;  what  an 
ample  chest !  what  glossy  plumage  !  —  his  weight  is  twenty-five 
pounds  !  And  see  that  brave  array  of  haunches  !  that  is  a  buck 
of  two  years,  —  juicy, -tender,  but  not  fat,  —  capital  for  steaks  ! 
But  your  eye  finds  something  yet  more  attractive  —  the  saddle 
of  a  four-year-old  doe,  kidney  covered,  as  you  see ;  a  morsel 
more  savoury  smokes  not  upon  a  monarch's  board.  How 
pleasant  to  eat!  Shall  I  say  it?  —  how  much  pleasanter  to 
give  away !  Ah,  how  such  things  do  win  their  way  to  hearts 
—  men's  and  women's  too  !  My  young  sporting  friends,  a  word 
in  your  ear:  the  worst  use  you  can  make  rf  y^ir  gnmp  ;c  ^ 
eat  it  yourselves. 


ROMANCERS  AND  STORY  WRITERS 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

[Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  born,  it  is  supposed,  in  Boston  in  1809. 
His  mother  and  father  having  died  when  he  was  three  years  old,  he 
was  adopted  by  Mrs.  John  Allan  of  Richmond,  Virginia.  He  was 
educated  in  England  and  at  the  University  of  Virginia  and  West 
Point.  In  January,  1831,  he 
was  dismissed  from  the  Military 
Academy  on  account  of  neglect 
of  duties,  and  went  to  New 
York  to  embark  upon  a  literary 
career.  His  life  from  this  time 
was  very  erratic,  being  passed  in 
various  cities  —  Richmond  and 
Baltimore  especially.  Poe  be 
came  connected  with  several 
magazines,  but  on  account  of 
the  irregularities  of  his  charac 
ter  —  especially  drinking  —  and 
ill  health,  he  was  unable  to  hold 
any  of  these  positions  for  any 
length  of  time.  In  May,  1836. 
he  was  married  to  Miss  Virginia 
Clemm,  his  cousin,  who  at  the  time  of  the  marriage  was  but  fourteen 
years  old.  In  1846,  while  the  Poes  were  living  in  a  small  cottage  at 
Fordham,  she  died  of  consumption  under  distressing  conditions  of 
poverty.  This  bereavement  so  affected  Poe  that  it  is  hardly  possible 
to  believe  that  he  was  himself  mentally  during  the  remaining  few 
years  of  his  life.  In  the  early  part  of  October,  1849,  he  went  to 
Baltimore,  and  shortly  aftenvards  was  found  lying  senseless  in  a 
saloon  which  was  being  used  as  a  voting  place.  He  was  removed  to 

27 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE 


28      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

a  hospital  where  he  died  on  the  morning  of  the  7th  of  October. 
The  mystery  surrounding  the  circumstances  of  his  death  has  never 
been  unraveled. 

Poe  challenges  attention  in  literature  because  of  three  notable 
contributions  —  critical  essays,  short  stories,  and  poems.  As  the 
critical  essays  are  not  represented  in  this  volume,  they  may  be  dis 
missed  with  the  brief  statement  that  in  spite  of  personal  bias  and 
jealousies,  Foe's  criticism  is  independent  and  suggestive,  and  his 
judgments  have  in  the  main  proved  to  be  those  of  posterity.  His 
poetic  contribution  is  discussed  in  another  place  in  this  book.  Of  his 
short  stories,  or  "  tales,"  as  he  called  them,  it  may  be  said  that  these 
are  among  the  best  examples  of  this  form  of  literature  in  the  English 
language.  In  range  of  subject  matter  Poe  was  narrow,  but  on  the 
constructive  side  of  story  writing  he  yields  to  few  writers.] 

THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 

During  the  whole  of  a  dull,  dark,  and  soundless  day  in  the 
autumn  of  the  year,  when  the  clouds'  hung  oppressively  low  in 
the  heavens,  I  had  been  passing  alone,  on  horseback,  through 
a  singularly  dreary  tract  of  country,  and  at  length  found  my 
self,  as  the  shades  of  the  evening  drew  on,  within  view  of  the 
melancholy  House  of  Usher.  I  know  not  how  it  was  —  but 
with  the  first  glimpse  of  the  building  a  sense  of  insufferable 
gloom  pervaded  my  spirit.  I  say  insufferable ;  for  the  feeling 
was  unrelieved  by  any  of  that  half-pleasurable,  because  poetic, 
sentiment  with  which  the  mind  usually  receives  even  the  stern 
est  natural  images  of  the  desolate  or  terrible.  I  looked  upon 
the  scene  before  me  —  upon  the  mere  house  and  the  simple 
landscape  features  of  the  domain,  upon  the  bleak  walls,  upon 
the  vacant  eyelike  windows,  upon  a  few  rank  sedges,  and  upon 
a  few  white  trunks  of  decayed  trees  —  with  an  utter  depression 
of  soul  which  I  can  compare  to  no  earthly  sensation  more 
properly  than  to  the  after-dream  of  the  reveler  upon  opium : 
the  bitter  lapse  into  everyday  life,  the  hideous  dropping  off  of 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  29 

the  veil.  There  was  an  iciness,  a  sinking,  a  sickening  of  the 
heart,  an  unredeemed  dreariness  of  thought  which  no  goading 
of  the  imagination  could  torture  into  aught  of  the  sublime. 
What  was  it  —  I  paused  to  think  —  what  was  it  that  so  un 
nerved  me  in  the  contemplation  of  the  House  of  Usher?  It 
was  a  mystery  all  insoluble ;  nor  could  I  grapple  with  the 
shadowy  fancies  that  crowded  upon  me  as  I  pondered.  I  was 
forced  to  fall  back  upon  the  unsatisfactory  conclusion  that 
while,  beyond  doubt,  there  are  combinations  of  very  simple 
natural  objects  which  have  the  power  of  thus  affecting  us,  still 
the  analysis  of  this  power  lies  among  considerations  beyond 
our  depth.  It  was  possible,  I  reflected,  that  a  mere  different 
arrangement  of  the  particulars  of  the  scene,  of  the  details  of 
the  picture,  would  be  sufficient  to  modify,  or  perhaps  to  anni 
hilate,  its  capacity  for  sorrowful  impression ;  and  acting  upon 
this  idea,  I  reined  my  horse  to  the  precipitous  brink  of  a  black 
and  lurid  tarn  that  lay  in  unruffled  luster  by  the  dwelling,  and 
gazed  clown  —  but  with  a  shudder  even  more  thrilling  than 
before  —  upon  the  remodeled  and  inverted  images  of  the  gray 
sedge,  and  the  ghastly  tree-stems,  and  the  vacant  and  eyelike 
windows. 

Nevertheless,  in  this  mansion  of  gloom  I  now  proposed  to 
myself  a  sojourn  of  some  weeks.  Its  proprietor,  Roderick 
Usher,  had  been  one  of  my  boon  companions  in  boyhood ;  but 
many  years  had  elapsed  since  our  last  meeting.  A  letter,  how 
ever,  had  lately  reached  me  in  a  distant  part  of  the  country  — 
a  letter  from  him  —  which  in  its  wildly  importunate  nature  had 
admitted  of  no  other  than  a  personal  reply.  The  MS.  gave 
evidence  of  nervous  agitation.  The  writer  spoke  of  acute  bodily 
illness,  of  a  mental  disorder  which  oppressed  him,  and  of  an 
earnest  desire  to  see  me,  as  his  best  and  indeed  his  only  per 
sonal  friend,  with  a  view  of  attempting,  by  the  cheerfulness  of 
my  society,  some  alleviation  of  his  malady.  It  was  the  manner 


30      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

in  which  all  this,  and  much  more,  was  said  —  it  was  the 
apparent  heart  that  went  with  his  request  —  which  allowed  me 
no  room  for  hesitation ;  and  I  accordingly  obeyed  forthwith 
what  I  still  considered  a  very  singular  summons. 

Although  as  boys  we  had  been  even  intimate  associates,  yet 
I  really  knew  little  of  my  friend.  His  reserve  had  been  always 
excessive  and  habitual.  I  was  aware,  however,  that  his  very 
ancient  family  had  been  noted,  time  out  of  mind,  for  a  peculiar 
sensibility  of  temperament,  displaying  itself,  through  long  ages, 
in  many  works  of  exalted  art,  and  manifested  of  late  in  repeated 
deeds  of  munificent  yet  unobtrusive  charity,  as  well  as  in  a 
passionate  devotion  to  the  intricacies,  perhaps  even  more  than 
to  the  orthodox  and  easily  recognizable  beauties,  of  musical 
science.  I  had  learned,  too,  the  very  remarkable  fact  that  the 
stem  of  the  Usher  race,  all  time-honored  as  it  was,  had  put 
forth  at  no  period  any  enduring  branch ;  in  other  words,  that 
the  entire  family  lay  in  the  direct  line  of  descent,  and  had 
always,  with  very  trifling  and  very  temporary  variation,  so  lain. 
It  was  this  deficiency,  I  considered,  while  running  over  in 
thought  the  perfect  keeping  of  the  character  of  the  premises 
with  the  accredited  character  of  the  people,  and  while  speculat 
ing  upon  the  possible  influence  which  the  one,  in  the  long  lapse 
of  centuries,  might  have  exercised  -upon  the  other  —  it  was  this 
deficiency,  perhaps,  of  collateral  issue,  and  the  consequent  un- 
deviating  transmission  from  sire  to  son  of  the  patrimony  with 
the  name,  which  had,  at  length,  so  identified  the  two  as  to 
merge  the  original  title  of  the  estate  in  the  quaint  and  equivocal 
appellation  of  the  "  House  of  Usher,"  an  appellation  which 
seemed  to  include,  in  the  minds  of  the  peasantry  who  used  it, 
both  the  family  and  the  family  mansion. 

I  have  said  that  the  sole  effect  of  my  somewhat  childish 
experiment,  that  of  looking  down  within  the  tarn,  had  been  to 
deepen  the  first  singular  impression.  There  can  be  no  doubt 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  31 

that  the  consciousness  of  the  rapid  increase  of  my  superstition 
—  for  why  should  I  not  so  term  it  ?  —  served  mainly  to  accel 
erate  the  increase  itself.  Such,  I  have  long  known,  is  the  para 
doxical  law  of  all  sentiments  having  terror  as  a  basis.  And  it 
might  have  been  for  this  reason  only,  that  when  I  again  uplifted 
my  eyes  to  the  house  itself,  from  its  image  in  the  pool,  there 
grew  in  my  mind  a  strange  fancy  —  a  fancy  so  ridiculous, 
indeed,  that  I  but  mention  it  to  show  the  vivid  force  of  the 
sensations  which  oppressed  me.  I  had  so  worked  upon  my  im 
agination  as  really  to  believe  that  about  the  whole  mansion  and 
domain  there  hung  an  atmosphere  peculiar  to  themselves  and 
their  immediate  vicinity  —  an  atmosphere  which  had  no  affinity 
with  the  air  of  heaven,  but  which  had  reeked  up  from  decayed 
trees,  and  the  gray  wall,  and  the  silent  tarn ;  a  pestilent  and 
mystic  vapor,  dull,  sluggish,  faintly  discernible,  and  leaden-hued. 
Shaking  off  from  my  spirit  what  must  have  been  a  dream,  I 
scanned  more  narrowly  the  real  aspect  of  the  building.  Its 
principal  feature  seemed  to  be  that  of  an  excessive  antiquity. 
The  discoloration  of  ages  had  been  great.  Minute  fungi  over 
spread  the  whole  exterior,  hanging  in  a  fine  tangled  webwork 
from  the  eaves.  Yet  all  this  was  apart  from  any  extraordinary 
dilapidation.  Xo  portion  of  the  masonry  had  fallen  ;  and  there 
appeared  to  be  a  wild  inconsistency  between  its  still  perfect 
adaptation  of  parts  and  the  crumbling  condition  of  the  individual 
stones.  In  this  there  was  much  that  reminded  one  of  the  spe 
cious  totality  of  old  woodwork  which  has  rotted  for  long  years 
in  some  neglected  vault,  with  no  disturbance  from  the  breath 
of  the  external  air.  Beyond  this  indication  of  extensive  decay, 
however,  the  fabric  gave  little  token  of  instability.  Perhaps  the 
eye  of  a  scrutinizing  observer  might  have  discovered  a  barely 
perceptible  fissure,  which,  extending  from  the  roof  of  the  build 
ing  in  front,  made  its  way  down  the  wall  in  a  zigzag  direction, 
until  it  became  lost  in  the  sullen  waters  of  the  tarn. 


32      SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Noticing  these  things,  I  rode  over  a  short  causeway  to  the 
house.  A  servant  in  waiting  took  my  horse,  and  I  entered  the 
Gothic  archway  of  the  hall.  A  valet,  of  stealthy  step,  thence 
conducted  me,  in  silence,  through  many  dark  and  intricate 
passage  in  my  progress  to  the  studio  of  his  master.  Much 
that  I  encountered  on  the  way  contributed,  I  know  not  how,  to 
heighten  the  vague  sentiments  of  which  I  have  already  spoken. 
While  the  objects  around  me  —  while  the  carvings  of  the  ceil 
ings,  the  somber  tapestries  of  the  walls,  the  ebon  blackness  of 
the  floors,  and  the  phantasmagoric  armorial  trophies  which 
rattled  as  I  strode  —  were  but  matters  to  which,  or  to  such  as 
which,  I  had  been  accustomed  from  my  infancy  —  while  I  hesi 
tated  not  to  acknowledge  how  familiar  was  all  this  —  I  still 
wondered  to  find  how  unfamiliar  were  the  fancies  which  ordi 
nary  images  were  stirring  up.  On  one  of  the  staircases  I  met 
the  physician  of  the  family.  His  countenance,  I  thought,  wore  a 
mingled  expression  of  low  cunning  and  perplexity.  He  accosted 
me  with  trepidation  and  passed  on.  The  valet  now  threw  open 
a  door  and  ushered  me  into  the  presence  of  his  master. 

The  room  in  which  I  found  myself  was  very  large  and  lofty. 
The  windows  were  long,  narrow,  and  pointed,  and  at  so  vast  a 
distance  from  the  black  oaken  floor  as  to  be  altogether  inacces 
sible  from  within.  Feeble  gleams  of  encrimsoned  light  made 
their  way  through  the  trellised  panes,  and  served  to  render 
sufficiently  distinct  the  more  prominent  objects  around ;  the 
eye,  however,  struggled  in  vain  to  reach  the  remoter  angles  of 
the  chamber,  or  the  recesses  of  the  vaulted  and  fretted  ceiling. 
Dark  draperies '  hung-  upon  the  walls.  The  general  furniture 
was  profuse,  comfortless,  antique,  and  tattered.  Many  books 
and  musical  instruments  lay  scattered  about,  but  failed  to  give 
any  vitality  to  the  scene.  I  felt  that  I  breathed  an  atmosphere 
of  sorrow.  An  air  of  stern,  deep,  and  irredeemable  gloom  hung 
over  and  pervaded  all. 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  33 

Upon  my  entrance,  L'sher  arose  from  a  sofa  on  which  he 
had  been  lying  at  full  length,  and  greeted  me  with  a  vivacious 
warmth  which  had  much  in  it,  I  at  first  thought,  of  an  over 
done  cordiality'  —  of  the  constrained  effort  of  the  ennuye  man 
of  the  world.  A  glance,  however,  at  his  countenance  convinced 
me  of  his  perfect  sincerity.  \Ye  sat  down ;  and  for  some 
moments,  while  he  spoke  not,  I  gazed  upon  him  with  a  feeling 
half  of  pity,  half  of  awe.  Surely  man  had  never  before  so 
terribly  altered,  in  so  brief  a  period,  as  had  Roderick  Lusher ! 
It  was  with  difficulty  that  I  could  bring  myself  to  admit  the 
identity  of  the  wan  being  before  me  with  the  companion  of  my 
early  boyhood.  Yet  the  character  of  his  face  had  been  at  all 
times  remarkable.  A  cadaverousness  of  complexion ;  an  eye 
large,  liquid,  and  luminous  beyond  comparison ;  lips  somewhat 
thin  and  very  pallid,  but  of  a  surpassingly  beautiful  curve ;  a 
nose  of  a  delicate  Hebrew  model,  but  with  a  breadth  of  nostril 
unusual  in  similar  formations ;  a  finely  molded  chin,  speaking, 
in  its  want  of  prominence,  of  a  w*ant  of  moral  energy ;  hair  of 
a  more  than  weblike  softness  and  tenuity ;  these  features,  with 
an  inordinate  expansion  above  the  regions  of  the  temple,  made 
up  altogether  a  countenance  not  easily  to  be  forgotten.  And 
now  in  the  mere  exaggeration  of  the  prevailing  character  of 
these  features,  and  of  the  expression  they  were  wont  to  convey, 
lay  so  much  of  change  that  I  doubted  to  whom  I  spoke.  The 
now  ghastly  pallor  of  the  skin,  and  the  now  miraculous  luster  of 
the  eye,  above  all  things  startled  and  even  awred  me.  The  silken 
hair,  too,  had  been  suffered  to  grow  all  unheeded,  and  as,  in  its 
wild  gossamer  texture,  it  floated  rather  than  fell  about  the  face, 
I  could  not,  even  with  effort,  connect  its  arabesque  expression 
with  any  idea  of  simple  humanity. 

In  the  manner  of  my  friend  I  was  at  once  struck  with  an 
•incoherence,  an  inconsistency ;  and  I  soon  found  this  to  arise 
from  a  series  of  feeble  and  futile  struggles  to  overcome  an 


34      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

habitual  trepidancy,  an  excessive  nervous  agitation.  For  some 
thing  of  this  nature  I  had  indeed  been  prepared,  no  less  by  his 
letter  than  by  reminiscences  of  certain  boyish  traits,  and  by 
conclusions  deduced  from  his  peculiar  physical  conformation 
and  temperament.  His  action  was  alternately  vivacious  and 
sullen.  His  voice  varied  rapidly  from  a  tremulous  indecision 
(when  the  animal  spirits  seemed  utterly  in  abeyance)  to  that 
species  of  energetic  concision — that  abrupt,  weighty,  unhurried, 
and  hollow-sounding  enunciation  —  that  leaden,  self-balanced 
and  perfectly  modulated  guttural  utterance — which  may  be 
observed  in  the  lost  drunkard,  or  the  irreclaimable  eater  of 
opium,  during  the  periods  of  his  most  intense  excitement. 

It  was  thus  that  he  spoke  of  the  object  of  my  visit,  of  his 
earnest  desire  to  see  me,  and  of  the  solace  he  expected  me  to 
afford  him.  He  entered,  at  some  length,  into  what  he  con 
ceived  to  be  the  nature  of  his  malady.  It  was,  he  said,  a  con 
stitutional  and  a  family  evil,  and  one  for  which  he  despaired 
to  find  a  remedy  —  a  mere  nervous  affection,  he  immediately 
added,  which  would  undoubtedly  soon  pass  off.  It  displayed 
itself  in  a  host  of  unnatural  sensations.  Some  of  these,  as  he 
detailed  them,  interested  and  bewildered  me ;  although,  per 
haps,  the  terms  and  the  general  manner  of  the  narration  had 
their  weight.  He  suffered  much  from  a  morbid  acuteness  of 
the  senses ;  the  most  insipid  food  was  alone  endurable ;  he 
could  wear  only  garments  of  certain  texture ;  the  odors  of  all 
flowers  were  oppressive ;  his  eyes  were  tortured  by  even  a 
faint  light ;  and  there  were  but  peculiar  sounds,  and  these  from 
stringed  instruments,  which  did  not  inspire  him  with  horror. 

To  an  anomalous  species  of  terror  I  found  him  a  bounden 
slave.  "  I  shall  perish,"  said  he,  "  I  must  perish  in  this  deplor 
able  folly.  Thus,  thus,  and  not  otherwise,  shall  I  be  lost.  I 
dread  the  events  of  the  future,  not  in  themselves,  but  in  their" 
results.  I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  any,  even  the  most  trivial, 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  35 

incident,  which  may  operate  upon  this  intolerable  agitation  of 
soul.  I  have,  indeed,  no  abhorrence  of  danger,  except  in  its 
absolute  effect  —  in  terror.  In  this  unnerved  —  in  this  pitiable 
condition,  I  feel  that  the  period  will  sooner  or  later  arrive  when 
I  must  abandon  life  and  reason  together  in  some  struggle  with 
the  grim  phantasm,  FEAR." 

I  learned  moreover  at  intervals,  and  through  broken  and 
equivocal  hints,  another  singular  feature  of  his  mental  condi 
tion.  He  was  enchained  by  certain  superstitious  impressions 
in  regard  to  the  dwelling  which  he  tenanted,  and  whence,  for 
many  years,  he  had  never  ventured  forth  —  in  regard  to  an 
influence  whose  supposititious  force  was  conveyed  in  terms 
too  shadowy  here  to  be  restated  —  an  influence  which  some 
peculiarities  in  the  mere  form  and  substance  of  his  family 
mansion  had,  by  dint  of  long  sufferance,  he  said,  obtained  over 
his  spirit  —  an  effect  which  the  physique  of  the  gray  walls  and 
turrets,  and  of  the  dim  tarn  into  which  they  all  looked  down, 
had,  at  length,  brought  about  upon  the  morale  of  his  existence. 

He  admitted,  however,  although  with  hesitation,  that  much 
of  the  peculiar  gloom  which  thus  afflicted  him  could  be  traced 
to  a  more  natural  and  far  more  palpable  origin  —  to  the  severe 
and  long-continued  illness,  indeed  to  the  evidently  approaching 
dissolution,  of  a  tenderly  beloved  sister  —  his  sole  companion 
for  long  years,  his  last  and  only  relative  on  earth.  "  Her 
decease,"  he  said,  with  a  bitterness  which  I  can  never  forget, 
"  would  leave  him  (him  the  hopeless  and  the  frail)  the  last  of 
the  ancient  race  of  the  Ushers."  While  he  spoke,  the  lady 
Madeline  (for  so  was  she  called)  passed  slowly  through  a 
remote  portion  of  the  apartment,  and,  without  having  noticed 
my  presence,  disappeared.  I  regarded  her  with  an  utter  aston 
ishment  not  unmingled  with  dread,  and  yet  I  found  it  impossible 
to  account  for  such  feelings.  A  sensation  of  stupor  oppressed 
me,  as  my  eyes  followed  her  retreating  steps.  When  a  door,  at 


36      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

length,  closed  upon  her,  my  glance  sought  instinctively  and 
eagerly  the  countenance  of  the  brother ;  but  he  had  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  I  could  only  perceive  that  a  far  more 
than  ordinary  wanness  had  overspread  the  emaciated  fingers 
through  which  trickled  many  passionate  tears. 

The  disease  of  the  lady  Madeline  had  long  baffled  the  skill 
of  her  physicians.  A  settled  apathy,  a  gradual  wasting  away 
of  the  person,  and  frequent  although  transient  affections  of 
a  partially  cataleptical  character,  were  the  unusual  diagnosis. 
Hitherto  she  had  steadily  borne  up  against  the  pressure  of  her 
malady,  and  had  not  betaken  herself  finally  to  bed ;  but  on 
the  closing  in  of  the  evening  of  my  arrival  at  the  house  she 
succumbed  (as  her  brother  told  me  at  night  with  inexpressible 
agitation)  to  the  prostrating  power  of  the  destroyer ;  and  I 
learned  that  the  glimpse  I  had  obtained  of  her  person  would 
thus  probably  be  the  last  I  should  obtain  —  that  the  lady,  at 
least  while  living,  would  be  seen  by  me  no  more. 

For  several  days  ensuing,  her  name  was  unmentioned  by 
either  Usher  or  myself;  and  during  this  period  I  was  busied 
in  earnest  endeavors  to  alleviate  the  melancholy  of  my  friend. 
We  painted  and  read  together ;  or  I  listened,  as  if  in  a  dream, 
to  the  wild  improvisations  of  his  speaking  guitar.  And  thus, 
as  a  closer  and  still  closer  intimacy  admitted  me  more  unre 
servedly  into  the  recesses  of  his  spirit,  the  more  bitterly  did  I 
perceive  the  futility  of  all  attempt  at  cheering  a  mind  from 
which  darkness,  as  if  an  inherent  positive  quality,  poured  forth 
upon  all  objects  of  the  moral  and  physical  universe,  in  one 
unceasing  radiation  of  gloom. 

I  shall  ever  bear  about  me  a  memory  of  the  many  solemn 
hours  I  thus  spent  alone  with  the  master  of  the  House  of 
Usher.  Yet  I  should  fail  in  any  attempt  to  convey  an  idea  of 
the  exact  character  of  the  studies,  or  of  the  occupations,  in 
which  he  involved  me,  or  led  me  the  way.  An  excited  and 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  37 

highly  distempered  ideality  threw  a  sulphureous  luster  over  all. 
His  long  improvised  dirges  will  ring  forever  in  my  ears. 
Among  other  things,  I  hold  painfully  in  mind  a  certain  singu 
lar  perversion  and  amplification  of  the  wild  air  of  the  last 
waltz  of  Von  Weber.  From  the  paintings  over  which  his  elabo 
rate  fancy  brooded,  and  which  grew,  touch  by  touch,  into 
vaguenesses  at  which  I  shuddered  the  more  thrillingly  because 
I  shuddered  knowing  not  why  —  from  these  paintings  (vivid 
as  their  images  now  are  before  me)  I  would  in  vain  endeavor 
to  educe  more  than  a  small  portion  which  should  lie  within  the 
compass  of  merely  written  words.  By  the  utter  simplicity,  by 
the  nakedness  of  his  designs,  he  arrested  and  overawed  atten 
tion.  If  ever  mortal  painted  an  idea,  that  mortal  was  Roderick 
Usher.  For  me  at  least,  in  the  circumstances  then  surrounding 
me,  there  arose,  out  of  the  pure  abstractions  which  the  hypo 
chondriac  contrived  to  throw  upon  his  canvas,  an  intensity  of 
intolerable  awe,  no  shadow  of  which  felt  I  ever  yet  in  the  con 
templation  of  the  certainly  glowing  yet  too  concrete  reveries 
of  Fuseli. 

One  of  the  phantasmagoric  conceptions  of  my  friend,  par 
taking  not  so  rigidly  of  the  spirit  of  abstraction,  may  be 
shadowed  forth,  although  feebly,  in  words.  A  small  picture 
presented  the  interior  of  an  immensely  long  and  rectangular 
vault  or  tunnel,  with  low  walls,  smooth,  white,  and  without 
interruption  or  device.  Certain  accessory  points  of  the  design 
served  well  to  convey  the  idea  that  this  excavation  lay  at  an 
exceeding  depth  below  the  surface  of  the  earth.  No  outlet 
was  observed  in  any  portion  of  its  vast  extent,  and  no  torch  or 
other  artificial  source  of  light  was  discernible ;  yet  a  flood  of 
intense  rays  rolled  throughout,  and  bathed  the  whole  in  a 
ghastly  and  inappropriate  splendor. 

I  have  just  spoken  of  that  morbid  condition  of  the  auditory 
nerve  which  rendered  all  music  intolerable  to  the  sufferer,  with 


38      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

the  exception  of  certain  effects  of  stringed  instruments.  It 
was,  perhaps,  the  narrow  limits  to  which  he  thus  confined  him 
self  upon  the  guitar,  which  gave  birth,  in  great  measure,  to  the 
fantastic  character  of  his  performances.  But  the  fervid  facility 
of  his  impromptus  could  not  be  so  accounted  for.  They  must 
have  been,  and  were,  in  the  notes  as  well  as  in  the  words  of 
his  wild  fantasias  (for  he  not  unfrequently  accompanied  him 
self  with  rhymed  verbal  improvisations),  the  result  of  that 
intense  mental  collectedness  and  concentration  to  which  I  have 
previously  alluded  as  observable  only  in  particular  moments  of 
the  highest  artificial  excitement.  The  words  of  one  of  these 
rhapsodies  I  have  easily  remembered.  I  was,  perhaps,  the 
more  forcibly  impressed  with  it,  as  he  gave  it,  because,  in  the 
under  or  mystic  current  of  its  meaning,  I  fancied  that  I  per 
ceived,  and  for  the  first  time,  a  full  consciousness,  on  the  part 
of  Usher,  of  the  tottering  of  his  lofty  reason  upon  her  throne. 
The  verses,  which  were  entitled  "  The  Haunted  Palace,"  ran 
very  nearly,  if  not  accurately,  thus : 


In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace  — 

Radiant  palace  —  reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion 

It  stood  there ; 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

II 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 
On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow, 

(This  —  nil  this  —  was  in  the  olden 
Time  long  ago) 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  39 

And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 


Ill 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting, 

Porphyrogene, 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 


IV 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door. 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing. 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 


But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate ; 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him,  desolate !) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 


40      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

VI 

And  travelers  now  within  that  valley 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody  ; 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh  —  but  smile  no  more. 

I  well  remember  that  suggestions  arising  from  this  ballad 
led  us  into  a  train  of  thought,  wherein  there  became  manifest 
an  opinion  of  Usher's  which  I  mention  not  so  much  on  account 
of  its  novelty  (for  other  men1  have  thought  thus)  as  on  ac 
count  of  the  pertinacity  with  which  he  maintained  it.  This 
opinion,  in  its  general  form,  was  that  of  the  sentience  of  all 
vegetable  things.  But  in  his  disordered  fancy  the  idea  had 
assumed  a  more  daring  character,  and  trespassed,  under  certain 
conditions,  upon  the  kingdom  of  inorganization.  I  lack  words 
to  express  the  full  extent  or  the  earnest  abandon  of  his  per 
suasion.  The  belief,  however,  was  connected  (as  I  have  pre 
viously  hinted)  with  the  gray  stones  of  the  home  of  his  fore 
fathers.  The  conditions  of  the  sentience  had  been  here,  he 
imagined,  fulfilled  in  the  method  of  collocation  of  these  stones 
—  in  the  order  of  their  arrangement,  as  well  as  in  that  of  the 
many  fungi  which  overspread  them,  and  of  the  decayed  trees 
which  stood  around  —  above  all,  in  the  long  undisturbed  en 
durance  of  this  arrangement,  and  in  its  reduplication  in  the 
still  waters  of  the  tarn.  Its  evidence  —  the  evidence  of  the 
sentience  —  was  to  be  seen,  he  said  (and  I  here  started  as  he 
spoke),  in  the  gradual  yet  certain  condensation  of  an  atmos 
phere  of  their  own  about  the  waters  and  the  walls.  The  result 

1  Watson,  Dr.  Percival,  Spallanzani,  and  especially  the  Bishop  of  Landaff .  — 
See  «  Chemical  Essays,"  Vol.  V. 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  41 

was  discoverable,  he  added,  in  that  silent,  yet  importunate  and 
terrible,  influence  which  for  centuries  had  molded  the  destinies 
of  his  family,  and  which  made  him  what  I  now  saw  him  — 
what  he  was.     Such  opinions  need  no   comment,  and  I  will 
make  none. 

Our  books  —  the  books  which,  for  years,  had  formed  no 
small  portion  of  the  mental  existence  of  the  invalid  —  were, 
as  might  be  supposed,  in  strict  keeping  with  this  character  of 
phantasm.  We  pored  together  over  such  works  as  the  Ververt 
and  Chartreuse  of  Gresset ;  the  Belphegor  of  Machiavelli ;  the 
Heaven  and  Hell  of  Swedenborg ;  the  Subterranean  Voyage  of 
Nicholas  Klimm  by  Holberg ;  the  Chiromancy  of  Robert  Flud, 
of  Jean  DTndagine,  and  of  De  la  Chambre ;  the  Journey  into 
the  Blue  Distance  of  Tieck ;  and  the  City  of  the  Sun  of  Cam- 
panella.  One  favorite  volume  was  a  small  octavo  edition  of 
the  Directorium  Inquisitor um,  by  the  Dominican  Eymeric  de 
Gironne ;  and  there  were  passages  in  Pomponius  Mela,  about 
the  old  African  Satyrs  and  yEgipans,  over  which  Usher  would 
sit  dreaming  for  hours.  His  chief  delight,  however,  was  found 
in  the  perusal  of  an  exceedingly  rare  and  curious  book  in 
quarto  Gothic — the  manual  of  a  forgotten  church  —  the  I'igilice 
Mortuorum  secundum  Chorum  Ecdesia  Maguntince. 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  wild  ritual  of  this  work,  and 
of  its  probable  influence  upon  the  hypochondriac,  when  one 
evening,  having  informed  me  abruptly  that  the  lady  Madeline 
was  no  more,  he  stated  his  intention  of  preserving  her  corpse 
for  a  fortnight  (previously  to  its  final  interment)  in  one  of  the 
numerous  vaults  within  the  main  walls  of  the  building.  The 
worldly  reason,  however,  assigned  for  this  singular  proceeding 
was  one  which  I  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  dispute.  The  brother 
had  been  led  to  his  resolution  (so  he  told  me)  by  consideration 
of  the  unusual  character  of  the  malady  of  the  deceased,  of 
certain  obtrusive  and  eager  inquiries  on  the  part  of  her  medical 


42      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

men,  and  of  the  remote  and  exposed  situation  of  the  burial 
ground  of  the  family.  I  will  not  deny  that  when  I  called  to 
mind  the  sinister  countenance  of  the  person  whom  I  met  upon 
the  staircase,  on  the  day  of  my  arrival  at  the  house,  I  had  no 
desire  to 'oppose  what  I  regarded  as  at  best  but  a  harmless, 
and  by  no  means  an  unnatural,  precaution. 

At  the  request  of  Usher  I  personally  aided  him  in  the  ar 
rangements  for  the  temporary  entombment.  The  body  having 
been  encoffined,  we  two  alone  bore  it  to  its  rest.  The  vault  in 
which  we  placed  it  (and  which  had  been  so  long  unopened  that 
our  torches,  half  smothered  in  its  oppressive  atmosphere,  gave 
us  little  opportunity  for  investigation)  was  small,  damp,  and 
entirely  without  means  of  admission  for  light,  lying,  at  great 
depth,  immediately  beneath  that  portion  of  the  building  in 
which  was  my  own  sleeping  apartment.  It  had  been  used, 
apparently,  in  remote  feudal  times,  for  the  worst  purposes  of  a 
donjon  keep,  and  in  later  days  as  a  place  of  deposit  for  powder, 
or  some  other  highly  combustible  substance,  as  a  portion  of  its 
floor,  and  the  whole  interior  of  a  long  archway  through  which 
we  reached  it,  were  carefully  sheathed  with  copper.  The  door, 
of  massive  iron,  had  been,  also,  similarly  protected.  Its  im 
mense  weight  caused  an  unusually  sharp,  grating  sound  as  it 
moved  upon  its  hinges. 

Having  deposited  our  mournful  burden  upon  tressels  within 
this  region  of  horror,  we  partially  turned  aside  the  yet  un 
screwed  lid  of  the  coffin  and  looked  upon  the  face  of  the 
tenant.  A  striking  similitude  between  the  brother  and  sister 
now  first  arrested  my  attention ;  and  Usher,  divining,  perhaps, 
my  thoughts,  murmured  out  some  few  words  from  which  I 
learned  that  the  deceased  and  himself  had  been  twins,  and 
that  sympathies  of  a  scarcely  intelligible  nature  had  always 
existed  between  them.  Our  glances,  however,  rested  not  long 
upon  the  dead  —  for  we  could  not  regard  her  unawed.  The 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  43 

disease  which  had  thus  entombed  the  lady  in  the  maturity  of 
youth  had  left,  as  usual  in  all  maladies  of  a  strictly  cataleptical 
character,  the  mockery  of  a  faint  blush  upon  the  bosom  and 
the  face,  and  that  suspiciously  lingering  smile  upon  the  lip 
which  is  so  terrible  in  death.  We  replaced  and  screwed  down 
the  lid,  and,  having  secured  the  door  of  iron,  made  our  way, 
with  toil,  into  the  scarcely  less  gloomy  apartments  of  the  upper 
portion  of  the  house. 

And  now,  some  days  of  bitter  grief  having  elapsed,  an 
observable  change  came  over  the  features  of  the  mental  dis 
order  of  my  friend.  His  ordinary  manner  had  vanished.  His 
ordinary  occupations  were  neglected  or  forgotten.  He  roamed 
from  chamber  to  chamber  with  hurried,  unequal,  and  objectless 
step.  The  pallor  of  his  countenance  had  assumed,  if  possible, 
a  more  ghastly  hue  —  but  the  luminousness  of  his  eye  had 
utterly  gone  out.  The  once  occasional  huskiness  of  his  tone 
was  heard  no  more ;  and  a  tremulous  quaver,  as  if  of  extreme 
terror,  habitually  characterized  his  utterance.  There  were  times, 
indeed,  when  I  thought  his  unceasingly  agitated  mind  was 
laboring  with  some  oppressive  secret,  to  divulge  which  he 
struggled  for  the  necessary  courage.  At  times,  again,  I  was 
obliged  to  resolve  all  into  the  mere  inexplicable  vagaries  of 
madness,  for  I  beheld  him  gazing  upon  vacancy  for  long  hours, 
in  an  attitude  of  the  profoundest  attention,  as  if  listening  to 
some  imaginary  sound.  It  was  no  wonder  that  his  condition 
terrified  —  that  it  infected  me.  I  felt  creeping  upon  me,  by 
slow  yet  certain  degrees,  the  wild  influences  of  his  own  fantas 
tic  yet  impressive  superstitions. 

It  was,  especially,  upon  retiring  to  bed  late  in  the  night  of 
the  seventh  or  eighth  day  after  the  placing  of  the  lady  Madeline 
within  the  donjon  that  I  experienced  the  full  power  of  such  feel 
ings.  Sleep  came  not  near  my  couch,  while  the  hours  waned 
and  waned  away.  I  struggled  to  reason  off  the  nervousness 


44      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

which  had  dominion  over  me.  I  endeavored  to  believe  that 
much,  if  not  all,  of  what  I  felt'  was  due  to  the  bewilder 
ing  influence  of  the  gloomy  furniture  of  the  room  —  of  the 
dark  and  tattered  draperies  which,  tortured  into  motion  by 
the  breath  of  a  rising  tempest,  swayed  fitfully  to  and  fro  upon 
the  walls  and  rustled  uneasily  about  the  decorations  of  the 
bed.  But  my  efforts  were  fruitless.  An  irrepressible  tremor 
gradually  pervaded  my  frame ;  and  at  length  there  sat  upon 
my  very  heart  an  incubus  of  utterly  causeless  alarm.  Shaking 
this  off  with  a  gasp  and  a  struggle,  I  uplifted  myself  upon  the 
pillows,  and,  peering  earnestly  within  the  intense  darkness  of 
the  chamber,  hearkened  —  I  know  not  why,  except  that  an 
instinctive  spirit  prompted  me  —  to  certain  low  and  indefinite 
sounds  which  came,  through  the  pauses  of  the  storm,  at  long 
intervals,  I  knew  not  whence.  Overpowered  by  an  intense 
sentiment  of  horror,  unaccountable  yet  unendurable,  I  threw 
on  my  clothes  with  haste  (for  I  felt  that  I  should  sleep  no 
more  during  the  night)  and  endeavored  to  arouse  myself  from 
the  pitiable  condition  into  which  I  had  fallen,  by  pacing  rapidly 
to  and  fro  through  the  apartment. 

I  had  taken  but  few  turns  in  this  manner  when  a  light  step 
on  an  adjoining  staircase  arrested  my  attention.  I  presently 
recognized  it  as  that  of  Usher.  In  an  instant  afterward  he 
rapped,  with  a  gentle  touch,  at  my  door,  and  entered,  bearing 
a  lamp.  His  countenance  was,  as  usual,  cadaverously  wan ; 
but,  moreover,  there  was  a  species  of  mad  hilarity  in  his  eyes, 
an  evidently  restrained  hysteria  in  his  whole  demeanor.  His 
air  appalled  me  —  but  anything  was  preferable  to  the  solitude 
which  I  had  so  long  endured,  and  I  even  welcomed  his 
presence  as  a  relief. 

"  And  you  have  not  seen  it  ?  "  he  said  abruptly,  after  having 
stared  about  him  for  some  moments  in  silence — "you  have 
not  then  seen  it?  —  but,  stay!  you  shall."  Thus  speaking,  and 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  45 

having  carefully  shaded  his  lamp,  he  hurried  to  one  of  the 
casements  and  threw  it  freely  open  to  the  storm. 

The  impetuous  fury  of  the  entering  gust  nearly  lifted  us 
from  our  feet.  It  was,  indeed,  a  tempestuous  yet  sternly  beau 
tiful  night,  and  one  wildly  singular  in  its  terror  and  its  beauty. 
A  whirlwind  had  apparently  collected  its  force  in  our  vicinity ; 
for  there  were  frequent  -and  violent  alterations  in  the  direction 
of  the  wind ;  and  the  exceeding  density  of  the  clouds  (which 
hung  so  low  as  to  press  upon  the  turrets  of  the  house)  did  not 
prevent  our  perceiving  the  lifelike  velocity  with  which  they  flew 
careering  from  all  points  against  each  other,  without  passing 
away  into  the  distance.  I  say  that  even  their  exceeding  density 
did  not  prevent  our  perceiving  this ;  yet  we  had  no  glimpse  of 
the  moon  or  stars,  nor  was  there  any  flashing  forth  of  the  light 
ning.  But  the  under  surfaces  of  the  huge  masses  of  agitated 
vapor,  as  well  as  all  terrestrial  objects  immediately  around  us, 
were  glowing  in  the  unnatural  light  of  a  faintly  luminous  and 
distinctly  visible  gaseous  exhalation  which  hung  about  and 
enshrouded  the  mansion. 

"You  must  not  —  you  shall  not  behold  this!"  said  I,  shud- 
deringly,  to  LTsher,  as  I  led  him  with  a  gentle  violence  from 
the  window  to  a  seat.  "  These  appearances,  which  bewilder 
you  are  merely  electrical  phenomena  not  uncommon  —  or  it 
may  be  that  they  have  their  ghastly  origin  in  the  rank  miasma 
of  the  tarn.  Let  us  close  this  casement ;  the  air  is  chilling  and 
dangerous  to  your  frame.  Here  is  one  of  your  favorite 
romances.  I  will  read,  and  you  shall  listen ;  and  so  we  will 
pass  away  this  terrible  night  together." 

The  antique  volume  which  I  had  taken  up  was  the  "  Mad 
Trist "  of  Sir  Launcelot  Canning ;  but  I  had  called  it  a  favorite 
of  Usher's  more  in  sad  jest  than  in  earnest ;  for,  in  truth,  there 
is  little  in  its  uncouth  and  unimaginative  prolixity  which  could 
have  had  interest  for  the  lofty  and  spiritual  ideality  of  my 


46      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

friend.  It  was,  however,  the  only  book  immediately  at  hand ; 
and  I  indulged  a  vague  hope  that  the  excitement  which  now 
agitated  the  hypochondriac  might  find  relief  (for  the  history 
of  mental  disorder  is  full  of  similar  anomalies)  even  in  the 
extremeness  of  the  folly  which  I  should  read.  Could  I  have 
judged,  indeed,  by  the  wild  overstrained  air  of  vivacity  with 
which  he  hearkened,  or  apparently  hearkened,  to  the  words 
of  the  tale,  I  might  well  have  congratulated  myself  upon  the 
success  of  my  design. 

I  had  arrived  at  that  well-known  portion  of  the  story  where 
Ethelred,  the  hero  of  the  Trist,  having  sought  in  vain  for 
peaceable  admission  into  the  dwelling  of  the  hermit,  proceeds 
to  make  good  an  entrance  by  force.  Here,  it  will  be  remem 
bered,  the  words  of  the  narrative  run  thus : 

"  And  Ethelred,  who  was  by  nature  of  a  doughty  heart,  and  who 
was  now  mighty  withal,  on  account  of  the  powerfulness  of  the  wine 
which  he  had  drunken,  waited  no  longer  to  hold  parley  with  the 
hermit,  who,  in  sooth,  was  of  an  obstinate  and  maliceful  turn,  but, 
feeling  the  rain  upon  his  shoulders,  and  fearing  the  rising  of  the 
tempest,  uplifted  his  mace  outright,  and  with  blows  made  quickly 
room  in  the  plankings  of  the  door  for  his  gauntleted  hand ;  and  now 
pulling  therewith  sturdily,  he  so  cracked,  and  ripped,  and  tore 
all  asunder,  that  the  noise  of  the  dry  and  hollow-sounding  wood 
alarumed  and  reverberated  throughout  the  forest." 

At  the  termination  of  this  sentence  I  started,  and  for  a 
moment  paused;  for  it  appeared  to  me  (although  I  at  once 
concluded  that  my  excited  fancy  had  deceived  me)  —  it 
appeared  to  me  that  from  some  very  remote  portion  of  the 
mansion  there  came,  indistinctly,  to  my  ears,  what  might  have 
been,  in  its  exact  similarity  of  character,  the  echo  (but  a  stifled 
and  dull  one  certainly)  of  the  very  cracking  and  ripping  sound 
which  Sir  Launcelot  had  so  particularly  described.  It  was, 
beyond  doubt,  the  coincidence  alone  which  had  arrested  my 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  47 

attention ;  for,  amid  the  rattling  of  the  sashes  of  the  casements 
and  the  ordinary  commingled  noises  of  the  still  increasing 
storm,  the  sound,  in  itself,  had  nothing,  surely,  which  should 
have  interested  or  disturbed  me.  I  continued  the  story : 

"  But  the  good  champion  Ethelred,  now  entering  within  the  door, 
was  sore  enraged  and  amazed  to  perceive  no  signal  of  the  maliceful 
hermit ;  but,  in  the  stead  thereof,  a  dragon  of  a  scaly  and  prodigious 
demeanor,  and  of  a  fiery  tongue,  which  sate  in  guard  before  a  palace 
of  gold,  with  a  floor  of  silver ;  and  upon  the  wall  there  hung,  a  shield 
of  shining  brass  with  this  legend  en  written  — 

Who  entereth  herein,  a  conqueror  hath  bin ; 
Who  slayeth  the  dragon,  the  shield  he  shall  win. 

And  Ethelred  uplifted  his  mace,  and  struck  upon  the  head  of  the 
dragon,  which  fell  before  him,  and  gave  up  his  pesty  breath,  with  a 
shriek  so  horrid  and  harsh,  and  withal  so  piercing,  that  Ethelred  had 
fain  to  close  his  ears  with  his  hands  against  the  dreadful  noise  of  it, 
the  like  whereof  was  never  before  heard." 

Here  again  I  paused  abruptly,  and  now  with  a  feeling  of 
wild  amazement ;  for  there  could  be  no  doubt  whatever  that, 
in  this  instance,  I  did  actually  hear  (although  from  what 
direction  it  proceeded  I  found  it  impossible  to  say)  a  low  and 
apparently  distant,  but  harsh,  protracted,  and  most  unusual 
screaming  or  grating  sound  —  the  exact  counterpart  of  what 
my  fancy  had  already  conjured  up  for  the  dragon's  unnatural 
shriek  as  described  by  the  romancer. 

Oppressed,  as  I  certainly  was,  upon  the  occurrence  of  tl 
second  and    most    extraordinary   coincidence,   by    a    tho 
conflicting   sensations,   in  which    wonder    and    extreme   ; 
were  predominant,  I  still  retained  sufficient  presence  of  mind 
to  avoid  exciting,  by  any  observation,  the  sensitive  ncrvo1 
of  my  companion.    I   was  by  no  means  certain  that  he  1  ad 
noticed  the  sounds  in  question;   although,  assuredly,  a  strange 
alteration  had  during  the  last  few  minutes  taken  place  in  his 


48      SOUTHERN   LIFE   IN   SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

demeanor.  From,  a  position  fronting  my  own,  he  had  gradu 
ally  brought  round  his  chair  so  as  to  sit  with  his  face  to  the 
door  of  the  chamber ;  and  thus  I  could  but  partially  perceive 
his  features,  although  I  saw  that  his  lips  trembled  as  if  he  were 
murmuring  inaudibly.  His  head  had  dropped  upon  his  breast 
—  yet  I  knew  that  he  was  not  asleep,  from  the  wide  and  rigid 
opening  of  the  eye  as  I  caught  a  glance  of  it  in  profile.  The 
motion  of  his  body,  too,  was  at  variance  with  this  idea,  for  he 
rocked  from  side  to  side  with  a  gentle  yet  constant  and  uniform 
sway.  Having  rapidly  taken  notice  of  all  this,  I  resumed  the 
narrative  of  Sir  Launcelot,  which  thus  proceeded : 

?t  And  now,  the  champion,  having  escaped  from  the  terrible  fury 
of  the  dragon,  bethinking  himself  of  the  brazen  shield,  and  of  the 
breaking  up  of  the  enchantment  which  was  upon  it,  removed  the 
carcass  from  out  of  the  way  before  him,  and  approached  valor- 
ously  over  the  silver  pavement  of  the  castle  to  where  the  shield 
was  upon  the  wall ;  which  in  sooth  tarried  not  for  his  full  coming, 
but  fell  down  at  his  feet  upon  the  silver  floor,  with  a  mighty  great 
and  terrible  ringing  sound." 

No  sooner  had  these  syllables  passed  my  lips  than  —  as  if 
a  shield  of  brass  had  indeed,  at  the  moment,  fallen  heavily 
upon  a  floor  of  silver  —  I  became  aware  of  a  distinct,  hollow, 
metallic,  and  clangorous,  yet  apparently  muffled,  reverberation. 
Completely  unnerved,  I  leaped  to  my  feet ;  but  the  measured 
rocking  movement  of  Usher  was  undisturbed.  I  rushed  to  the 
chair  in  which  he  sat.  His  eyes  were  bent  fixedly  before  him, 
and  throughout  his  whole  countenance  there  reigned  a  stony 
rigidity.  But  as  I  placed  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder  there 
came  a  strong  shudder  over  his  whole  person  ;  a  sickly  smile 
quivered  about  his  lips ;  and  I  saw  that  he  spoke  in  a  low, 
hurried,  and  gibbering  murmur,  as  if  unconscious  of  my  pres- 
sence.  Bending  closely  over  him,  I  at  length  drank  in  the 
hideous  import  of  his  words. 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  49 

"  Not  hear  it?  —  yes,  I  hear  it,  and  have  heard  it.  Long  — 
long  —  long  —  many  minutes,  many  hours,  many  days,  have 
I  heard  it  —  yet  I  dared  not  —  oh,  pity  me,  miserable  wretch 
that  I  am  !  —  I  dared  not  —  I  dared  not  speak  !  We  have  put 
her  living  in  the  tomb !  Said  I  not  that  my  senses  were  acute  ? 
I  now  tell  you  that  I  heard  her  first  feeble  movements  in  the 
hollow  coffin.  I  heard  them  —  many,  many  days  ago  —  yet  I 
dared  not  —  I  dared  not  speak!  And  now  —  to-night  — 
Ethelred  —  ha  S  ha  !  —  the  breaking  of  the  hermit's  door,  and 
the  death  cry  of  the  dragon,  and  the  clangor  of  the  shield !  — 
say,  rather,  the  rending  of  her  coffin,  and  the  grating  of  the 
iron  hinges  of  her  prison,  and  her  struggles  within  the  coppered 
archway  of  the  vault!  Oh,  whither  shall  I  fly?  Will  she  not 
be  here  anon  ?  Is  she  not  hurrying  to  upbraid  me  for  my 
haste  ?  Have  I  not  heard  her  footstep  on  the  stair  ?  Do  I  not 
distinguish  that  heavy  and  horrible  beating  of  her  heart  ? 
Madman ! "  —  here  he  sprang  furiously  to  his  feet,  and 
shrieked  out  his  syllables,  as  if  in  the  effort  he  were  giving 
up  his  soul  — "  Madman !  I  tell  you  that  she  now  stands 
without  the  door!" 

As  if  in  the  superhuman  energy  of  his  utterance  there  had 
been  found  the  potency  of  a  spell,  the  huge  antique  panels  to 
which  the  speaker  pointed  threw  slowly  back,  upon  the  instant, 
their  ponderous  and  ebony  jaws.  It  was  the  work  of  the  rush 
ing  gust  —  but  then  without  those  doors  there  did  stand  the 
lofty  and  enshrouded  figure  of  the  lady  Madeline  of  Usher. 
There  was  blood  upon  her  white  robes,  and  the  evidence  of 
some  bitter  struggle  upon  every  portion  of  her  emaciated 
frame.  For  a  moment  she  remained  trembling  and  reeling  to 
and  fro  upon  the  threshold  —  then,  with  a  low  moaning  cry, 
fell  heavily  inward  upon  the  person  of  her  brother,  and,  in 
her  violent  and  now  final  death  agonies,  bore  him  to  the  floor 
a  corpse,  and  a  victim  to  the  terrors  he  had  anticipated. 


SOI     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

From  that  chamber,  and  from  that  mansion,  I  fled  aghast. 
The  storm  was  still  abroad  in  all  its  wrath  as  I  found  myself 
crossing  the  old  causeway.  Suddenly  there  shot  along  the 
path  a  wild  light,  and  I  turned  to  see  whence  a  gleam  so 
unusual  could  have  issued ;  for  the  vast  house  and  its  shadows 
were  alone  behind  me.  The  radiance  was  that  of  the  full, 
setting,  and  blood-red  moon,  which  now  shone  vividly  through 
that  once  barely  discernible  fissure,  of  which  I  have  before 
spoken  as  extending  from  the  roof  of  the  building,  in  a  zigzag 
direction,  to  the  base.  While  I  gazed,  this  fissure  rapidly 
widened  —  there  came  a  fierce  breath  of  the  whirlwind  —  the 
entire  orb  of  the  satellite  burst  at  once  upon  my  sight  —  my 
brain  reeled  as  I  saw  the  mighty  walls  rushing  asunder  — 
there  was  a  long,  tumultuous,  shouting  sound  like  the  voice  of 
a  thousand  waters  —  and  the  deep  and  dank  tarn  at  my  feet 
closed  sullenly  and  silently  over  the  fragments  of  the  "  House 
of  Usher." 

JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY 

[John  Pendleton  Kennedy  was  born  in  Baltimore,  Maryland,  in 
1 795.  After  graduating  from  a  local  college  he  studied  law  and  began 
to  practice  his  profession.  For  the  rest  of  his  life  he  divided  his 
attention  among  law,  politics,  and  literature.  In  1852  he  became 
Secretary  of  the  Navy  under  President  Fillmore.  He  died  at  Newport, 
Rhode  Island,  in  1870.] 

SELECTIONS   FROM  "SWALLOW  BARN" 
s\ 

SWALLOW  BARN,  AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  ESTATE 

M 
\      Swallow  Barn  is  an  aristocratical  old  edifice  which  sits,  like  a 

Wooding  hen,  on  the  southern  bank  of  the  James  River.     It 
HXjks  down  upon  a  shady  pocket  or  nook,  formed  by  an  inden- 
'  Ration  of  the  shore,  from  a  gentle  acclivity  thinly  sprinkled  with 


>     f 
V\  I 


JOHN    PENDLETON    KENNEDY 


oaks  whose  magnificent  branches  afford  habitation  to  sundry 
friendly  colonies  of  squirrels  and  woodpeckers. 

This  time-honored  mansion  was  the  residence  of  the  family 
of  Hazards.  But  in  the  present  generation  the  spells  of  love  and 
mortgage  have  translated  the  possession  to  Frank  Meri wether, 
who,  having  married  Lucretia,  the  eldest  daughter  of  my  late 
Uncle  Walter  Hazard,  and 
lifted  some  gentlemanlike  en 
cumbrances  which  had  been 
sleeping  for  years  upon  the 
domain,  was  thus  inducted 
into  the  proprietary  rights. 
The  adjacency  of  his  own 
estate  gave  a  territorial  fea 
ture  to  this  alliance,  of  which 
the  fruits  were  no  less  dis 
cernible  in  the  multiplication 
of  negroes,  cattle,  and  poul 
try  than  in  a  flourishing  clan 
of  Meriwethers. 

The  main  building  is  more 
than  a  century  old.  It  is  built 
with  thick  brick  walls,  but 

one  story  in  height,  and  surmounted  by  a  double-faced  or 
hipped  roof,  which  gives  the  idea  of  a  ship  bottom  upwards. 
Later  buildings  have  been  added  to  this  as  the  wants  or  am 
bition  of  the  family  have  expanded.  These  are  all  constructed 
of  wood,  and  seem  to  have  been  built  in  defiance  of  all  laws 
of  congruity,  just  as  convenience  required.  But  they  form  alto 
gether  an  agreeable  picture  of  habitation,  suggesting  the  idea 
of  comfort  in  the  ample  space  they  fill  and  in  their  conspicuous 
adaptation  to  domestic  uses. 

The  hall  door  is  an  ancient  piece  of  walnut,  which  has  grown 


JOHN  PENDLETON   KENNEDY 


52      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

too  heavy  for  its  hinges  and  by  its  daily  travel  has  furrowed  the 
floor  in  a  quadrant,  over  which  it  has  an  uneasy  journey.  It  is 
shaded  by  a  narrow  porch,  with  a  carved  pediment  upheld  by 
massive  columns  of  wood,  somewhat  split  by  the  sun.  An  ample 
courtyard,  inclosed  by  a  semicircular  paling,  extends  in  front 
of  the  whole  pile,  and  is  traversed  by  a  gravel  road  leading  from 
a  rather  ostentatious  iron  gate,  which  is  swung  between  two 
pillars  of  brick  surmounted  by  globes  of  cut  stone.  Between 
the  gate  and  the  house  a  large  willow  spreads  its  arched  and 
pendent  drapery  over  the  grass.  A  bridle  rack  stands  within 
the  inclosure,  and  near  it  a  ragged  horse-nibbled  plum  tree  — 
current  belief  bein^  that  a  plum  tree  thrives  on  ill  usag;e 
—  casts  its  skeleton  shadow  on  the  dust. 

Some  Lombardy  poplars,  springing  above  a  mass  of  shrubbery, 
partially  screen  various  supernumerary  buildings  at  a  short  dis 
tance  in  the  rear  of  the  mansion.  Amongst  these  is  to  be  seen 
the  gable  end  of  a  stable,  with  the  date  of  its  erection  stiffly 
emblazoned  in  black  bricks  near  the  upper  angle,  in  figures  set 
in  after  the  fashion  of  the  work  on  a  girl's  sampler.  In  the 
same  quarter  a  pigeon  box,  reared  on  a  post  and  resembling  a 
huge  teetotum,  is  visible,  and  about  its  several  doors  and  win 
dows  a  family  of  pragmatical  pigeons  are  generally  strutting, 
bridling,  and  bragging  at  each  other  from  sunrise  until  dark, 

Appendant  to  this  homestead  is  an  extensive  tract  of  land 
which  stretches  some  three  or  four  miles  along  the  river, 
presenting  alternately  abrupt  promontories  mantled  with  pine 
and  dwarf  oak,  and  small  inlets  terminating  in  swamps.  Some 
sparse  portions  of  forest  vary  the  landscape,  which,  for  the  most 
part,  exhibits  a  succession  of  fields  clothed  with  Indian  corn, 
some  small  patches  of  cotton  or  tobacco  plants,  with  the  usual 
varieties  of  stubble  and  fallow  grounds.  These  are  inclosed  by 
worm  fences  of  shrunken  chestnut,  where  lizards  and  ground 
squirrels  are  perpetually  running  races  along  the  rails. 


JOHN   PENDLETON   KENNEDY  53 

A  few  hundred  steps  from  the  mansion  a  brook  glides  at  a 
snail's  pace  towards   the  river,  holding  its  course   through  a 
wilderness  of  laurel  and  alder,  and  creeping  around  islets  covered 
with  green  mosses.    Across  this  stream  is  thrown  a  rough  bridge, 
which  it  would  delight  a  painter  to  see  ;  and  not  far  below  it  an 
aged  sycamore  twists  its  roots  into  a  grotesque  framework  to 
the  pure  mirror  of  a  spring,  which  wells  up  its  cool  waters  from 
a  bed  of  gravel  and  runs  gurgling  to  the  brook.    There  it  aids  J 
in  furnishing  a  cruising  ground  to  a  squadron  of  ducks  who,  in/ 
defiance  of  all  nautical  propriety,  are  incessantly  turning  up  I 
their  sterns  to  the  skies.    On  the  grass  which  skirts  the  margin  >v 
of  the  spring  I  observe  the  family  linen  is  usually  spread  out        J 
by  some  three  or  four  negro  women,  who  chant  shrill  music       / 
over  their  washtubs,  and  seem  to  live  in  ceaseless  warfare  with 
sundry  little  besmirched  and  bow-legged  blacks,  who  are  never 
tired  of  making  somersaults  and  mischievously  pushing  each^-/ 
other  on  the  clothes  laid  down  to  dry. 

Beyond  the  bridge,  at  some  distance,  stands  a  prominent 
object  in  the  perspective  of  this  picture, —  the  most  venerable 
appendage  to  the  establishment,  —  a  huge  barn  with  an  immense 
roof  hanging  almost  to  the  ground  and  thatched  a  foot  thick 
with  sunburnt  straw,  which  reaches  below  the  eaves  in  ragged 
flakes.  It  has  a  singularly  drowsy  and  decrepit  aspect.  The 
yard  around  it  is  strewed  knee-deep  with  litter,  from  the  midst 
of  which  arises  a  long  rack  resembling  a  chevaux-de-frise,  which 
is  ordinarily  filled  with  fodder.  This  is  the  customary  lounge  of 
half  a  score  of  oxen  and  as  many  cows,  who  sustain  an  imper 
turbable  companionship  with  a  sickly  wagon,  whose  parched 
tongue  and  drooping  swingletrees,  as  it  stands  in  the  sun,  give 
it  a  most  forlorn  and  invalid  character;  whilst  some  sociable 
carts  under  the  sheds,  with  their  shafts  perched  against  the^^- 
walls,  suggest  the  idea  of  a  set  of  gossiping  cronies  taking  their' 
ease  in  a  tavern  porch.  Now  and  then  a  clownish  hobbledehoy 


54      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

colt,  with  long  fetlocks  and  disordered  mane,  and  a  thousand 
burs  in  his  tail,  stalks  through  this  company.  But  as  it  is  for 
bidden  ground  to  all  his  tribe,  he  is  likely  very  soon  to  encounter 
a  shower  of  corncobs  from  some  of  the  negro  men  ;  upon  which 
contingency  he  makes  a  rapid  retreat  across  the  bars  which 
imperfectly  guard  the  entrance  to  the  yard,  and  with  an  uncouth 
display  of  his  heels  bounds  away  towards  the  brook,  where  he 
stops  and  looks  back  with  a  saucy  defiance ;  and  after  affecting 
to  drink  for  a  moment,  gallops  away  with  a  braggart  whinny  to 
the  fields. 

THE  MASTER  OF  SWALLOW  BARN 

The  master  of  this  lordly  domain  is  Frank  Meriwether.  He 
is  "now  in  the  meridian  of  life  —  somewhere  about  forty-five. 
Good  cheer  and,  an  easy  temper  tell  well  upon  him.  The  first 
has  given  him  a  comfortable,  portly  figure,  and  the  latter  a 
contemplative  turn  of  mind,  which  inclines  him  to  be  lazy  and 
philosophical. 

He  has  some  right  to  pride  himself  on  his  personal  appearance, 
for  he  has  a  handsome  face,  with  a  dark-blue  eye  and  a  fine 
intellectual  brow.  His  head  is  growing  scant  of  hair  on  the 
crown,  which  induces  him  to  be  somewhat  particular  in  the 
management  of  his  locks  in  that  locality,  and  these  are  assuming 
a  decided  silvery  hue. 

It  is  pleasant  to  see  him  when  he  is  going  to  ride  to  the 
Court  House  on  business  occasions.  He  is  then  apt  to  make 
his  appearance  in  a  coat  of  blue  broadcloth,  astonishingly  glossy, 
and  with  an  unusual  amount  of  plaited  ruffle  strutting  through 
the  folds  of  a  Marseilles  waistcoat.  A  worshipful  finish  is  given 

(to  this  costume  by  a  large  straw  hat,  lined  with  green  silk.  There 
is  a  magisterial  fullness  in  his  garments  which  betokens  condition 
in  the  world,  and  a  heavy  bunch  of  seals,  suspended  by  a  chain  of 
gold,  jingles  as  he  moves,  pronouncing  him  a  man  of  superfluities. 


JOHN    PENDLETON    KENNEDY  55 

[He  is  too  lazy  to  try  to  go  into  politics,  but  did  once  make  a 
pretence  of  studying  law  in  Richmond,  and  is  a  somewhat  auto 
cratic  justice  of  the  peace.] 

.  .  .  Having  in  this  way  qualified  himself  to  assert  and  main 
tain  his  rights,  he  came  to  his  estate,  upon  his  arrival  at  age,  a 
very  model  of  landed  gentlemen.    Since  that  time  his  avocations 
have  had  a  certain  literary  tincture ;  for  having  settled  himself 
down  as  a  married  man,  and  got  rid  of  his  superfluous  foppery, 
he  rambled  with  wonderful  assiduity  through  a  wilderness  of 
romances,  poems,  and  dissertations,  which  are  now  collected  in  J*™* 
his  library,  and,  withjLheir  battered  blue  covers,  present  a  lively/*****- 
type  of  an  army  of  continentalsat  the  close  of  the  war,  or.a\   X*4 
hospital  of  invalids.    These  have  all,  at  last,  given  way  to  the 
newspapers — a  miscellaneous  study  very  attractive  and  engross 
ing  to   country  gentlemen.     This   line  of  study  has   rendered 
Meriwether  a  most  perilous  antagonist  in  the  matter  of  legisla 
tive  proceedings. 

A  landed  proprietor,  \vith  a  good  house  and  a  host  of  servants, 
is  naturally  a  hospitable  man.    A  guest  is  one  of  his  daily  wants. 
A  friendly  face  is  a  necessary  of  life,  without  which  the  heart 
is  apt  to  starve,  or  a  luxury  without  which  it  grows  parsimoni 
ous.    Men  who  are  isolated  from  society  by  distance  feel  these 
wants  by  an  instinct,  and  are  grateful  for  the  opportunity  to 
relieve  them.    In  Meriwether  the  sentiment  goes  beyond  this.  \\^^. 
It  has,  besides,  something  dialectic  in  it.    His  house  is  open  to  o1 
everybody,  as  freely  almost  as  an  inn.    But  to  see  him  when  he   ^ 
has  had  the  good  fortune  to  pick  up  an  intelligent,  educated 
gentleman,  —  and   particularly  one  who  listens  \vell !  —  a  re 
spectable,  assentations  stranger !    All  the  better  if  he  has  been 
in  the  Legislature,  and  better  still,  if  in  Congress.    Such  a  per 
son  caught  within  the  purlieus  of  Swallow  Barn  may  set  down 
one  week's   entertainment  as  certain,  —  inevitable,  —  and  as 


56      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

many  more  as  he  likes  —  the  more  the  merrier.  He  will  know 
something  of  the  quality  of  Meriwether's_jiietoric  before  he 
is  gone. 

Then  again,  it  is  very  pleasant  to  see  Frank's  kind_and  con^ 
siderate  bearingtowards  his  servants  and  dependents^  His 
slaves  appreciate  this  and  hold  him  in  most  affectionate  rever 
ence,  and,  therefore,  are  not  only  contented,  but  happy  under 
his  dominion.  .  .  . 

He  is  somewhat  distinguished  as  a  breeder  of  blooded  horses  ; 
and  ever  since  the  celebrated  race  between  Eclipse  and  Henry 
has  taken  to  this  occupation  with  a  renewed  zeal,  as  a  matter 
affecting  the  reputation  of  the  state.  It  is  delightful  to  hear  him 
expatiate  upon  the  value,  importance,  and  patriotic  bearing  of 
this  employment,  and  to  listen  to  all  his  technical  lore  touching 
the  mystery  of  horsecraft.  He  has  some  fine  colts  in  training, 
which  are  committed  to  the  care  of  a  pragmatical  old  negro, 
named  Carey,  who,  in  his  reverence  for  the  occupation,  is  the 
perfect  shadow  of  his  master.  He  and  Frank  hold  grave  and 
momentous  consultations  upon  the  affairs  of  the  stable,  in  such 
a  sagacious  strain  of  equal  debate  that  it  would  puzzle  a  spec 
tator  to  tell  which  was  the  leading  member  of  the  council.  Carey 
thinks  he  knows  a  great  deal  more  upon  the  subject  than  his 
master,  and  their  frequent  intercourse  has  begot  a  familiarity  in 
the  old  negro  which  is  almost  fatal  to  Meriwether's  supremacy. 
The  old  man  feels  himself  authorized  to  maintain  his  positions 
according  to  the  freest  parliamentary  form,  and  sometimes  with 
a  violence  of  asseveration  that  compels  his  master  to  abandon 
his  ground,  purely  out  of  faint-heartedness.  Meriwether  gets  a 
little  nettled  by  Carey's  doggedness,  but  generally  turns  it  off 
in  a  laugh.  I  was  in  the  stable  with  him,  a  few  mornings  after 
my  arrival,  when  he  ventured  to  expostulate  with  the  venerable 
groom  upon  a  professional  point,  but  the  controversy  terminated 
in  its  customary  way.  "  Who  sot  you  up,  Master  Frank,  to  tell 


JOHN   PENDLETON   KENNEDY  57 

me  how  to  fodder  that  'ere  cretur,  when  I  as  good  as  nursed 
you  on  my  knee  ? " 

"Well,  tie  up  your  tongue,  you  old  mastiff,"  replied  Frank, 
as  he  walked  out  of  the  stable,  "  and  cease  growling,  since  you 
will  have  it  your  own  way " ;  and  then,  as  we  left  the  old 
man's  presence,  he  added,  with  an  affectionate  chuckle,  "  a 
faithful  old  cur,  too,  that  snaps  at  me  out  of  pure  honesty ;  he 
has  not  many  years  left,  and  it  does  no  harm  to  humor  him/' 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  SWALLOW  BARX 

Whilst  Frank  Meriwether  amuses  himself  with  his  quiddities, 
and  floats  through  life  upon  the  current  of  his  humor,  hisjdameT 
my  excellent  cousin  Lucretia,  takes  charge  of  the  household 
affairs,  as  one  who  has  a  reputation  to  stake  upon  her  adminis 
tration.  She  has  made  it  a  perfect  science,  and  great  is  her 
fame  in  the  dispensation  thereof ! 

Those  who  have  visited  Swallow  Barn  will  long  remember 
the  morning  stir,  of  which  the  murmurs  arose  even  unto  the 
chambers  and  fell  upon  the  ears  of  the  sleepers :  the  dry  rub 
bing  of  floors,  and  even  the  waxing  of  the  same  until  they  were 
like  ice ;  and  the  grinding  of  coffee  mills ;  and  the  gibber  of 
ducks,  and  chickens,  and  turkeys ;  and  all  the  multitudinous 
concert  of  homely  sounds.  And  then,  her  breakfasts !  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  counted  extravagant,  but  a  small  regiment  might 
march  in  upon  her  without  disappointment;  and  I  would  put 
them  for  excellence  and  variety  against  anything  that  ever  was 
served  upon  platter.  Moreover,  all  things  go  like  clockwork. 
She  rises  with  the  lark  and  infuses  an  early  vigor  into  the  whole 
household.  And  yet  she  is  a  thin  woman  to  look  upon,  and  a 
feeble ;  with  a  sallow  complexion,  and  a  pair  of  animated 
black  eyes  which  impart  a  portion  of  fire  to  a  countenance 
otherwise  demure  from  the  paths  worn  across  it  in  the  frequent 


58      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

travel  of  a  low-country  ague.    But,  although  her  life  has  been 
somewhat  saddened  by  such  visitations,  my  cousin  is  too  spirited 
a  woman  to  give  up  to  them ;   for  she  is  therapeutical  in  her 
constitution,  and  considers  herself  a  full  match  for  any  reason 
able  tertian  in  the  world.    Indeed,  I  have  sometimes  thought 
that  she  took  more   pride  in  her  leechcraft  than  becomes  a 
Christian  woman ;  she  is  even  a  little  vainglorious,.    For,  to  say 
^nothing  of  ier  skill  in  cojnpounding__siTfrpIesJ^she  nas  occasion- 
ally^roifgn't:  dowi'i^pon'lierJbpnH'  th?  sobfr  r^mrrjstrances  of 
her  husband  by  her  pertinacious  faith  in  the  efficacy  of  certain 
spells  in  cases_oflntermittent.  _-Hut  there  is  no  reasoning  against 
her  experience.    She  can  enumerate  the  cases  — "  and  men  may 
say  what  they  choose  about  its  being  contrary  to  reason,  and  all 
r    that :  it  is  their  way  !    But  seeing  is  believing  —  nine  scoops  of 
^water  in  the  hollow  of  the  hand,  from  the  sycamore  spring,  for 
Yl  three  mornings,  before  sunrise,  and  a  cup  of  strong  coffee  with 
r    /  lemon  juice,  will  break  an  ague,  try  it  when  you  will."    In  short, 
r^Nfs  Frank  says,  "  Lucretia  will  die  in  that  creed." 

I  am  occasionally  up  early  enough  to  be  witness  to  her 
morning  regimen,  which,  to  my  mind,  is  rather  tyrannically 
enforced  against  the  youngsters  of  her  numerous  family,  both 
white  and  black.  She  is  in  the  habit  of  preparing  some  death- 
routing  decoction  for  them,  in  a  small  pitcher,  and  administering 
it  to  the  whole  squadron  in  succession,  who  severally  swallow 
the  dose  with  a  most  ineffectual  effort  at  repudiation,  and  gallop 
off  with  faces  all  rue  and  wormwood. 

Everything  at  Swallow  Barn  that  falls  within  the  superin 
tendence  of  my  cousin  Lucretia  is  a  pattern  of  industry.  In 
fact,  I  consider  her  the  very  priestess^ £>f  thej\merican  system, 
for,  with  her,  the  protection  of  manufactures  is  even  more  of  a 
passion  than  a  principle.  Every  here  and  there,  over  the  estate, 
may  be  seen,  rising  in  humble  guise  above  the  shrubbery,  the 
rude  chimney  of  a  log  cabin,  where  all  the  livelong  day  the 


JOHN   PENDLETON   KENNEDY  59 

plaintive  moaning  of  the  spinning  wheel  rises  fitfully  upon  the 
breeze,  like  the  fancied  notes  of  a  hobgoblin,  as  they  are  some 
times  imitated  in  the  stories  with  which  we  frighten  children. 
In  these  laboratories  the  negro  women  are  employed  in  pre 
paring  yarn  for  the  loom,  from  which  is  produced  not  only  a 
comfortable  supply  of  winter  clothing  for  the  working  people 
but  some  excellent  carpets  for  the  house. 

It  is  refreshing  to  behold  how  affectionately  vain  our  good 
hostess  is  of  Frank,  and  what  deference  she  shows  to  his  judg 
ment  in  all  matters  except  those  that  belong  to  the  home  de 
partment  ;  for  there  she  is  confessedly,  and  without  appeal,  the 
paramount  power.  It  seems  to  be  a  dogma  with  her  that  he  is 
the  very  "  first  man  in  Virginia,"  an  expression  which  in  this 
region  has  grown  into  an  emphatic  provincialism.  Frank,  in  re 
turn,  is  a  devout  admirer  of  her  accomplishments,  and  although 
he  does  not  pretend  to  an  ear  for  music,  he  is  in  raptures  at 
her  skill  on  the  harpsichord  when  she  plays  at  night  for  the 
children  to  dance ;  and  he  sometimes  sets  her  to  singing  "  The 
Twins  of  Latona,"  and  "  Old  Towler,"  and  "  The  Rose-Tree  in 
Full  Bearing  "  (she  does  not  study  the  modern  music)  for  the 
entertainment  of  his  company.  On  these  occasions  he  stands 
by  the  instrument,  and  nods  his  head  as  if  he  comprehended 
the  airs. 

TRACES  OF  THE  FEUDAL  SYSTEM 

^ 

The  gentlemen  of  Virginia  live  apart  from  each  other.  They 
are  surrounded  by  their  bondsmen  and  dependents ;  and  the 
customary  intercourse  of  society  familiarizes  their  minds  to 
the  relation  of  high  and  low  degree.  They  frequently  meet  in  the 
interchange  of  a  large  and  thriftless  hospitality,  in  which  the 
forms  of  society  are  foregone  for  its  comforts,  and  the  business 
of  life  thrown  aside  for  the  enjoyment  of  its  pleasures.  Their 
halls  are  large,  and  their  boards  ample ;  and  surrounding  the 


60      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

great  family  hearth,  with  its  immense  burthen  of  blazing  wood 
casting  a  broad  and  merry  glare  over  the  congregated  house 
hold  and  the  numerous  retainers,  a  social  winter  party  in 
Virginia  affords  a  tolerable  picture  of  feudal  munificence. 

Frank  Meriwether  is  a  good  specimen  of  the  class  I  have 
described.  He  seeks  companionship  with  men  of  ability,  and  is 
a  zealous  disseminator  of  the  personal  fame  of  individuals  who 
have  won  any  portion  of  renown  in  the  state.  Sometimes  I 
even  think  he  exaggerates  a  little,  when  descanting  upon  the 
prodigies  of  genius  that  have  been  reared  in  the  Old  Dominion ; 
and  he  manifestly  seems  to  consider  that  a  young  man  who 
.has  astonished  a  whole  village  in  Virginia  by  the  splendor  of 
his  talents  must,  of  course,  be  known  throughout  the  United 
States ;  for  he  frequently  opens  his  eyes  at  me  with  an  air  of 
astonishment  when  I  happen  to  ask  him  who  is  the  marvel  he 
is  speaking  of. 

I  observe,  moreover,  that  he  has  a  constitutional  fondness 
for  paradoxes  and  does  not  scruple  to  adopt  and  republish  any 
apothegm  that  is  calculated  to  startle  one  by  its  novelty.  He 
has  a  correspondence  with  several  old  friends  who  were  with 
him  at  college,  and  who  have  now  risen  into  an  extensive 
political  notoriety  in  the  state ;  these  gentlemen  furnish  him 
with  many  new  currents  of  thought,  along  which  he  glides  with 
a  happy  velocity.  He  is  essentially  meditative  in  his  character 
and  somewhat  given  to  declamation ;  and  these  traits  have 
communicated  a  certain  measured  and  deliberate  gesticulation 
to  his  discourse.  I  have  frequently  seen  him  after  dinner  stride 
backward  and  forward  across  the  room  for  some  moments, 
wrapped  in  thought,  and  then  fling  himself  upon  the  sofa  and 
come  out  with  some  weighty  doubt,  expressed  with  a  solemn 
emphasis.  In  this  form  he  lately  began  a  conversation,  or 
rather  a  speech,  that  for  a  moment  quite  disconcerted  me. 
"  After  aiy  said  he,  as  if  he  had  been  talking  to  me  before, 


JOHN   PENDLETON   KENNEDY  6 1 

although  these  were  the  first  words  he  uttered  —  then  making 
a  parenthesis,  so  as  to  qualify  what  he  \vajs  going  to  say  — 
"  I  don't  deny  that  the  steamboat  is  destined  to  produce 
valuable  results,  but  after  all,  I  much  question  (and  here  he 
bit  his  upper  lip,  and  paused  an  instant)  if  we  are  not  better 
without  it.  I  declare,  I  think  it  strikes  deeper  at  the  supremacy 
of  the  states  than  most  persons  are  willing  to  allow.  This 
annihilation  of  space,  sir,  is  not  to  be  desired.  Our  protection 
against  the  evils  of  consolidation  consists  in  the  very  obstacles 
to  our  intercourse.  Splatterthwaite  Dubbs  of  Dinwiddie  [or 
some  such  name ;  Frank  is  famous  for  quoting  the  opinions  of 
his  contemporaries.  This  Splatterthwaite,  I  take  it,  was  some 
old  college  chum  who  had  got  into  the  legislature  and,  I  dare 
say,  made  pungent  speeches]  made  a  good  remark  —  that  the 
home  material  of  Virginia  was  never  so  good  as  when  her 
roads  were  at  their  worst."  And  so  Frank  wrent  on  with  quite 
a  harangue,  to  which  none  of  the  company  replied  one  word 
for  fear  we  might  get  into  a  dispute.  Everybody  seems  to 
understand  the  advantage  of  silence  when  Meriwether  is  in 
clined  to  be  expatiatory. 

This  strain  of  philosophizing  has  a  pretty  marked  influence 
in  the  neighborhood,  for  I  perceive  that  Frank's  opinions  are 
very  much  quoted.  There  is  a  set  of  under-talkers  about  these 
large  country  establishments  who  are  very  glad  to  pick  up 
the  crumbs  of  wisdom  which  fall  from  a  rich  man's  table ; 
secondhand  philosophers,  who  trade  upon  other  people's  stock. 
Some  of  these  have  a  natural  bias  to  this  venting  of  upper 
opinions,  by  reason  of  certain  dependences  in  the  way  of  trade 
and  favor ;  others  have  it  from  affinity  of  blood,  which  works 
like  a  charm  over  a  whole  county.  Frank  stands  related,  by 
some  tie  of  marriage  or  mixture  of  kin,  to  an  infinite  train  of 
connections,  spread  over  the  state ;  and  it  is  curious  to  learn 
what  a  decided  hue  this  gives  to  the  opinions  of  the  district. 


62      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

We  had  a  notable  example  of  this  one  morning  not  long  after 
my  arrival  at  Swallow  Barn.  Meriwether  had  given  several 
indications  immediately  after  breakfast  of  a  design  to  pour  out 
upon  us  the  gathered  ruminations  of  the  last  twenty-four  hours, 
but  we  had  evaded  the  storm  with  some  caution,  when  the 
arrival  of  two  or  three  neighbors,  —  plain,  homespun  farmers, 
—  who  had  ridden  to  Swallow  Barn  to  execute  some  papers 
before  Frank  as  a  magistrate,  furnished  him  with  an  occasion 
that  was  not  to  be  lost.  After  dispatching  their  business  he 
detained  them,  ostensibly  to  inquire  about  their  crops  and  other 
matters  of  their  vocation,  but,  in  reality,  to  give  them  that  very 
flood  of  politics  which  we  had  escaped.  We,  of  course,  listened 
without  concern,  since  we  were  assured  of  an  auditory  that 
would  not  flinch.  In  the  course  of  this  disquisition  he  made 
use  of  a  figure  of  speech  which  savored  of  some  previous  study, 
or,  at  least,  was  highly  in  the  oratorical  vein.  "  Mark  me, 
gentlemen,"  said  he,  contracting  his  brow  over  his  fine  thought 
ful  eye  and  pointing  the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand  directly  at 
the  face  of  the  person  he  addressed  —  "  mark  me,  gentlemen ; 
you  and  I  may  not  live  to  see  it,  but  our  children  will  see  it, 
and  wail  over  it  —  the  sovereignty  of  this  Union  will  be  as  the 
rod  of  Aaron ;  it  will  turn  into  a  serpent  and  swallow  up  all 
that  struggle  with  it."  Mr.  Chub  was  present  at  this  solemn 
denunciation  and  was  very  much  affected  by  it.  He  rubbed  his 
hands  with  some  briskness  and  uttered  his  applause  in  a  short 
but  vehement  panegyric,  in  which  were  heard  only  the  detached 
words  —  "  Mr.  Burke  —  Cicero." 

The  next  day  Ned  and  myself  were  walking  by  the  school- 
house  and  were  hailed  by  Rip  from  one  of  the  windows,  who, 
in  a  sly  undertone,  as  he  beckoned  us  to  come  close  to  him, 
told  us,  "if  we  wanted  to  hear  a  regular  preach,  to  stand  fast." 
We  could  look  into  the  schoolroom  unobserved,  and  there  was 
our  patriotic  pedagogue  haranguing  the  boys  with  a  violence  of 


JOHN    PENDLETON   KENNEDY  63 

action  that  drove  an  additional  supply  of  blood  into  his  face. 
It  was  apparent  that  the  old  gentleman  had  got  much  beyond 
the  depth  of  his  hearers  and  was  pouring  out  his  rhetoric  more 
from  oratorical  vanity  than  from  any  hope  of  enlightening  his 
audience.  At  the  most  animated  part  of  his  strain  he  brought 
himself,  by  a  kind  of  climax,  to  the  identical  sentiment  uttered 
by  Meriwether  the  day  before.  He  warned  his  young  hearers 
—  the  oldest  of  them  was  not  above  fourteen  —  "to  keep  a 
lynx-eyed  gaze  upon  that  serpentlike  ambition  which  would 
convert  the  government  at  Washington  into  Aaron's  rod,  to 
swallow  up  the  independence  of  their  native  state." 

This  conceit  immediately  ran  through  all  the  lower  circles 
at  Swallow  Barn.  Mr.  Tongue,  the  overseer,  repeated  it  at 
the  blacksmith's  shop  in  the  presence  of  the  blacksmith  and 
Mr.  Absalom  Bulrush,  a  spare,  ague-and-feverish  husbandman 
who  occupies  a  muddy  slip  of  marshland  on  one  of  the  river 
bottoms,  which  is  now  under  a  mortgage  to  Meriwether ;  and 
from  these  it  has  spread  far  and  wide,  though  a  good  deal 
diluted,  until  in  its  circuit  it  has  reached  our  veteran  groom 
Carey,  who  considers  the  sentiment  as  importing  something  of 
an  awful  nature.  With  the  smallest  encouragement,  Carey  will 
put  on  a  tragi-comic  face,  shake  his  head  very  slowly,  turn  up 
his  eyeballs,  and  open  out  his  broad,  scaly  hands,  while  he 
repeats  with  labored  voice,  "  Look  out,  Master  Ned !  Aaron's 
rod  a  black  snake  in  Old  Virginny ! "  Upon  which,  as  we  fall 
into  a  roar  of  laughter,  Carey  stares  with  astonishment  at  our 
irreverence.  But  having  been  set  to  acting  this  scene  for  us 
once  or  twice,  he  now  suspects  us  of  some  joke  and  asks  "  if 
there  is  n't  a  copper  for  an  old  negro,"  which  if  he  succeeds  in 
getting,  he  runs  off,  telling  us  "  he  is  too  'cute  to  make  a  fool 
of  himself." 

Meriwether  does  not  dislike  this  trait  in  the  society  around 
him.  I  happened  to  hear  two  carpenters  one  day,  who  were, 


64      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

making  some  repairs  at  the  stable,  in  high  conversation.  One 
of  them  was  expounding  to  the  other  some  oracular  opinion  of 
Frank's  touching  the  political  aspect  of  the  country,  and  just  at 
the  moment  when  the  speaker  was  most  animated,  Meriwether 
himself  came  up.  He  no  sooner  became  aware  of  the  topic  in 
discussion  than  he  walked  off  in  another  direction,  affecting  not 
to  hear  it,  although  I  knew  he  heard  every  word.  He  told  me 
afterwards  that  there  was  "  a  wholesome  tone  of  feeling 
amongst  the  people  in  that  part  of  the  country." 


THE  QUARTER 

Having  dispatched  these  important  matters  at  the  stable,  we 
left  our  horses  in  charge  of  the  servants  and  walked  towards 
the  cabins,  which  were  not  more  than  a  few  hundred  paces 
distant.  These  hovels,  with  their  appurtenances,  formed  an 
exceedingly  picturesque  landscape.  They  were  scattered,  with 
out  order,  over  the  slope  of  a  gentle  hill ;  and  many  of  them 
were  embowered  under  old  and  majestic  trees.  The  rudeness 
of  their  construction  rather  enhanced  the  attractiveness  of  the 
scene.  Some  few  were  built  after  the  fashion  of  the  better 
sort  of  cottages,  but  age  had  stamped  its  heavy  traces  upon 
their  exterior ;  the  green  moss  had  gathered  upon  the  roofs, 
and  the  coarse  weatherboarding  had  broken,  here  and  there, 
into  chinks.  But  the  more  lowly  of  these  structures,  and  the 
most  numerous,  were  nothing  more  than  plain  log  cabins,  com 
pacted  pretty  much  on  the  model  by  which  boys  build  partridge 
traps,  being  composed  of  the  trunks  of  trees,  still  clothed  with 
their  bark,  and  knit  together  at  the  corners  with  so  little  regard 
to  neatness  that  the  timbers,  being  of  unequal  lengths,  jutted 
beyond  each  other,  sometimes  to  the  length  of  a  foot.  Perhaps 
none  of  these  latter  sort  were  more  than  twelve  feet  square 
and  not  above  seven  in  height.  A  door  swung  upon  wooden 


JOHN    PENDLETON   KENNEDY  65 

hinges,  and  a  small  window  of  two  narrow  panes  of  glass  were, 
in  general,  the  only  openings  in  the  front.  The  intervals 
between  the  logs  were  filled  with  clay,  and  the  roof,  which  was 
constructed  of  smaller  timbers,  laid  lengthwise  along  it  and 
projecting  two  or  three  feet  beyond  the  side  or  gable  walls, 
heightened,  in  a  very  marked  degree,  the  rustic  effect.  The 
chimneys  communicated  even  a  droll  expression  to  these  habi 
tations.  They  were,  oddly  enough,  built  of  billets  of  wood, 
having  a  broad  foundation  of  stone,  and  growing  narrower  as 
they  rose,  each  receding  gradually  from  the  house  to  which  it 
was  attached,  until  it  reached  the  height  of  the  roof.  These 
combustible  materials  were  saved  from  the  access  of  the  fire 
by  a  thick  coating  of  mud,  and  the  whole  structure,  from  its 
tapering  form,  might  be  said  to  bear  some  resemblance  to  the 
spout  of  a  teakettle ;  indeed,  this  domestic  implement  would 
furnish  no  unapt  type  of  the  complete  cabin. 

From  this  description,  which  may  serve  to  illustrate  a  whole 
species  of  habitations  very  common  in  Virginia,  it  will  be  seen 
that,  on  the  score  of  accommodation,  the  inmates  of  these 
dwellings  were  furnished  according  to  a  very  primitive  notion 
of  comfort.  Still,  however,  there  were  little  garden  patches 
attached  to  each,  where  cymblings,  cucumbers,  sweet  potatoes, 
watermelons,  and  cabbages  flourished  in  unrestrained  luxuri 
ance.  Add  to  this  that  there  were  abundance  of  poultry  domes 
ticated  about  the  premises,  and  it  may  be  perceived  that, 
whatever  might  be  the  inconveniences  of  shelter,  there  was  no 
want  of  what,  in  all  countries,  would  be  considered  a  reasonable 
supply  of  luxuries. 

Nothing  more  attracted  my  observation  than  the  swarms  of 
little  negroes  that  basked  on  the  sunny  sides  of  these  cabins 
and  congregated  to  gaze  at  us  as  we  surveyed  their  haunts. 
They  were  nearly  all  in  that  costume  of  the  golden  age  which 
I  have  heretofore  described,  and  showed  their  slim  shanks  and 


66      SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 
long  heels  in  all  varieties  of  their  grotesque  natures.    Their 

predominant-  Ipvp  of  sunshine,  and    their  lazy^listless   postures, 

and  apparent  content  to  be  silently  looking  abroad,  might  well 
afford  a  comparison  to  a  set  of  terrapins  luxuriating  in  the 
genial  warmth  of  summer  on  the  logs  of  a  mill  pond. 

And  there,  too,  were  the  prolific  mothers  of  this  redundant 
brood  —  a  number  of  stout  negro  women  who  thronged  the 
doors  of  the  huts,  full  of  idle  curiosity  to  see  us.  And,  when 
to  these  are  added  a  few  reverend,  wrinkled,  decrepit  old  men, 
with  faces  shortened  as  if  with  drawing  strings,  noses  that 
seemed  to  have  run  all  to  nostril,  and  with  feet  of  the  config 
uration  of  a  mattock,  my  reader  will  have  a  tolerably  correct 
idea  of  this  negro  quarter,  its  population,  buildings,  external 
appearance,  situation,  and  extent. 

Meriwether,  I  have  said  before,  is  a  kind  and  considerate 
master.  It  is  his  custom  frequently  to  visit  his  slaves,  in  order 
to  inspect  their  condition  and,  where  it  may  be  necessary,  to 
add  to  their  comforts  or  relieve  their  wants.  His  coming 
amongst  them,  therefore,  is  always  hailed  with  pleasure.  He 
has  constituted  himself  into  a  high  court  of  appeal,  and  makes 
it  a  rule  to  give  all  their  petitions  a  patient  Jiearmg  ancLjto  do 
jnqtjr^Jn  th^  premise0  This,  he  tells  me,  he  considers  as 
indispensably  necessary.  He  says  that  no  overseer  is  entirely 
to  be  trusted ;  that  there  are  few  men  who  have  the  temper  to 
administer  wholesome  laws  to  any  population,  however  small, 
without  some  omissions  or  irregularities,  and  that  this  is  more 
emphatically  true  of  those  who  administer  them  entirely  at 
their  own  will.  On  the  present  occasion,  in  almost  every  house 
where  Frank  entered,  there  was  some  boon  to  be  asked ;  and 
I  observed  that,  in  every  case,  the  petitioner  was  either  gratified 
or  refused  in  such  a  tone  as  left  no  occasion  or  disposition  to 
murmur.  Most  of  the  women  had  some  bargains  to  offer,  of 
fowls  or  eggs  or  other  commodities  of  the  household  use,  and 


JOHN   PENDLETON    KENNEDY  67 

Meriwether  generally  referred  them  to  his  wife,  who,  I  found, 
relied  almost  entirely  on  this  resource  for  the  supply  of  such 
commodities,  the  negroes  being  regularly  paid  for  whatever 
was  offered  in  this  way. 

One  old  fellow  had  a  special  favor  to  ask  —  a  little  money 
to  get  a  new  padding  for  his  saddle,  which,  he  said,  "  galled  his 
cretur's  back."  Frank,  after  a  few  jocular  passages  with  the 
veteran,  gave  him  what  he  desired,  and  sent  him  off  rejoicing. 

"  That,  sir,"  said  Meriwether,  "is  no  less  a  personage  than 
Jupiter.  He  is  an  old  bachelor  and  has  his  cabin  here  on  the 
hill.  He  is  now  near  seventy  and  is  a  kind  of  King  of  the 
Quarter.  He  has  a  horse,  which  he  extorted  from  me  last 
Christmas,  and  I  seldom  come  here  without  finding  myself 
involved  in  some  new  demand  as  a  consequence  of  my  dona 
tion.  Now  he  wants  a  pair  of  spurs,  which,  I  suppose,  I  must 
give  him.  He  is  a  preposterous  coxcomb,  and  Ned  has  admin 
istered  to  his  vanity  by  a  present  of  a  chapeau  de  bras,  a  relic 
of  my  military  era,  which  he  wears  on  Sundays  with  a  conceit 
that  has  brought  upon  him  as  much  envy  as  admiration  —  the 
usual  condition  of  greatness." 

The  air  of  contentment  and  good  humor  and  kind  family 
attachment,  which  was  apparent  throughout  this  little  commu 
nity,  and  the  familiar  relations  existing  between  them  and  the 
proprietor  struck  me  very  pleasantly.  I  came  here  a  stranger, 
in  great  degree,  to  the  negro  character,  knowing  but  little  of 
the  domestic  history  of  these  people,  their  duties,  habits,  or 
temper,  and  somewhat  disposed,  indeed,  from  prepossessions, 
to  look  upon  them  as  severely  dealt  with,  and  expecting  to  have 
my  sympathies  excited  towards  them  as  objects  of  commisera 
tion.  I  have  had,  therefore,  rather  a  special  interest  in  observing 
them.  The  contrast  between  my  preconceptions  of  their  condi 
tion  and  the  reality  which  I  have  witnessed,  has  brought  me  a 
most  agreeable  surprise.  I  will  not  say  that,  in  a  high  state  of 


68      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

cultivation  and  of  such  self-dependence  as  they  might  possibly 
attain  in  a  separate  national  existence,  they  might  not  become 
a  more  respectable  people,  but  I  am  quite  sure  they  never 
could  become  a  happier  people  than  I  find  them  here.  Per 
haps  they  are  destined,  ultimately,  to  that  national  existence 
in  the  clime  from  which  they  derive  their  origin  —  that  this  is  a 
transition  state  in  which  we  see  them  in  Virginia.  If  it  be  so, 
no  tribe  of  people  have  ever  passed  from  barbarism  to  civiliza 
tion  whose  middle  stage  of  progress  has  been  more  secure  from 
harm,  more  genial  to  their  character,  or  better  supplied  with 
mild  and  beneficent  guardianship,  adapted  to  the  actual  state  of 
their  intellectual  feebleness,  than  the  negroes  of  Swallow  Barn. 
And,  from  what  I  can  gather,  it  is  pretty  much  the  same  on 
the  other  estates  in  this  region.  I  hear  of  an  unpleasant  excep 
tion  to  this  remark  now  and  then,  but  under  such  conditions  as 
warrant  the  opinion  that  the  unfavorable  case  is  not  more 
common  than  that  which  may  be  found  in  a  survey  of  any 
other  department  of  society.  The  oppression  of  apprentices,  of 
seamen,  of  soldiers,  of  subordinates,  indeed,  in  every  relation, 
may  furnish  elements  for  a  bead-roll  of  social  grievances  quite 
as  striking,  if  they  were  diligently  noted  and  brought  to  view. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  "HORSESHOE  ROBINSON" 
HORSESHOE  ROBINSON 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  a  day  towards 
the  end  of  July,  1780,  when  Captain  Arthur  Butler,  now  hold 
ing  a  brevet,  some  ten  days  old,  of  major  in  the  Continental 
army,  and  Galbraith  Robinson  were  seen  descending  the  long 
hill  which  separates  the  South  Garden  from  the  Cove.  They 
had  just  left  the  rich  and  mellow  scenery  of  the  former  district, 
and  were  now  passing  into  the  picturesque  valley  of  the  latter. 


JOHN   PENDLETON   KENNEDY  69 

It  was  evident  from  the  travel-worn  appearance  of  their  horses, 
as  well  as  from  their  equipments,  that  they  had  journeyed  many 
a  mile  before  they  had  reached  this  spot.  .  .  . 

Arthur  Butler  was  now  in  the  possession  of  the  vigor  of 
early  manhood,  with  apparently  some  eight  and  twenty  years 
upon  his  head.  His  frame  was  well  proportioned,  light,  and 
active.  His  face,  though  distinguished  by  a  smooth  and  almost 
beardless  cheek,  still  presented  an  outline  of  decided  manly 
beauty.  The  sun  and  wind  had  tanned  his  complexion,  except 
where  a  rich  volume  of  black  hair  upon  his  brow  had  preserved 
the  original  fairness  of  a  high,  broad  forehead.  A  hazel  eye 
sparkled  under  the  shade  of  a  dark  lash  and  indicated,  by  its 
alternate  playfulness  and  decision,  an  adventurous  as  well  as  a 
cheerful  spirit.  His  whole  bearing,  visage,  and  figure  seemed 
to  speak  of  one  familiar  with  enterprise  and  fond  of  danger ; 
they  denoted  gentle  breeding  predominating  over  a  life  of  toil 
and  privation. 

Notwithstanding  his  profession,  which  was  seen  in  his  erect 
and  peremptory  carriage,  his  dress  at  this  time  was,  with  some 
slight  exceptions,  merely  civil.  He  was  habited  in  the  costume 
of  a  gentleman  of  the  time,  with  a  round  hat  pretty  much  of 
the  fashion  of  the  present  day  —  though  then  but  little  used 
except  amongst  military  men  —  with  a  white  cockade  to  show 
his  party,  while  his  saddlebow  was  fortified  by  a  brace  of  horse 
man's  pistols  stowed  away  in  large  holsters  covered  with  bear 
skin  :  for  in  those  days,  when  hostile  banners  were  unfurled 
and  men  challenged  each  other  upon  the  highways,  these  pistols 
were  a  part  of  the  countenance  (to  use  an  excellent  old  phrase) 
of  a  gentleman. 

Galbraith  Robinson  was  a  man  of  altogether  rougher  mold. 
Every  lineament  of  his  body  indicated  strength.  His  stature 
was  rather  above  six  feet ;  his  chest  broad ;  his  limbs  sinewy, 
and  remarkable  for  their  symmetry.  There  seemed  to  be  no 


/O      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

useless  flesh  upon  his  frame  to  soften  the  prominent  surface  of 
his  muscles,  and  his  ample  thigh,  as  he  sat  upon  horseback, 
showed  the  working  of  its  texture  at  each  step,  as  if  part  of  the 
animal  on  which  he  rode.  His  was  one  of  those  iron  forms  that 
might  be  imagined  almost  bullet-proof.  With  all  these  advan 
tages  of  person  there  was  a  radiant,  broad  good  nature  upon 
his  face ;  and  the  glance  of  a  large,  clear,  blue  eye  told  of  arch 
thoughts,  and  of  shrewd  homely  wisdom.  A  ruddy  complexion 
accorded  well  with  his  sprightly  but  massive  features,  of  which 
the  prevailing  expression  was  such  as  silently  invited  friendship 
and  trust.  If  to  these  traits  be  added  an  abundant  shock  of 
yellow,  curly  hair,  terminating  in  a  luxuriant  queue,  confined  by 
a  narrow  strand  of  leather  cord,  my  reader  will  have  a  tolerably 
correct  idea  of  the  person  I  wish  to  describe. 

Robinson  had  been  a  blacksmith  at  the  breaking  out  of  the 
Revolution.  He  was  the  owner  of  a  little  farm  in  the  Waxhaw 
settlement  on  the  Catawba,  and  having  pitched  his  habitation 
upon  a  promontory,  around  whose  base  the  Waxhaw  creek 
swept  with  a  regular  but  narrow  circuit,  this  locality,  taken  in 
connection  with  his  calling,  gave  rise  to  a  common  prefix  to 
his  name  throughout  the  neighborhood,  and  he  was  therefore 
almost  exclusively  distinguished  by  the  sobriquet  of  Horseshoe 
Robinson.  This  familiar  appellative  had  followed  him  into 
the  army. 

The  age  of  Horseshoe  was  some  seven  or  eight  years  in 
advance  of  that  of  Butler.  On  the  present  occasion  his  dress 
was  of  the  plainest  and  most  rustic  description :  a  spherical 
crowned  hat  with  a  broad  brim,  a  coarse  gray  coatee  of  mixed 
cotton  and  wool,  dark  linsey-woolsey  trousers  adhering  closely 
to  his  leg,  hobnailed  shoes,  and  a  red  cotton  handkerchief  tied 
carelessly  round  his  neck  with  a  knot  upon  his  bosom.  This 
costume  and  a  long  rifle  thrown  into  the  angle  of  the  right  arm, 
with  the  breech  resting  on  his  pommel,  and  a  pouch  of  deerskin, 


JOHN    PENDLETON    KENNEDY  7 1 

with  a  powderhorn  attached  to  it,  suspended  on  his  right  side, 
might  have  warranted  a  spectator  in  taking  Robinson  for  a 
woodsman  or  hunter  from  the  neighboring  mountains. 

Such  were  the  two  personages  who  now  came  "  pricking 
o'er  the  hill."  The  period  at  which  I  have  presented  them  to 
my  reader  was,  perhaps,  the  most  anxious  one  of  the  whole 
struggle  for  independence.  Without  falling  into  a  long  narrative 
of  events  which  are  familiar,  at  least  to  every  American,  I  may 
recall  the  fact  that  Gates  had  just  passed  southward  to  take 
command  of  the  army  destined  to  act  against  Cornwallis.  It 
was  now  within  a  few  weeks  of  that  decisive  battle  which  sent 
the  hero  of  Saratoga  "  bootless  home  and  weatherbeaten  back," 
to  ponder  over  the  mutations  of  fortune  and,  in  the  quiet 
shades  of  Virginia,  to  strike  the  balance  of  fame  between 
Northern  glory  and  Southern  discomfiture. 

[On  his  way  South,  Captain  Butler  passed  by  Dove  Cote,  in 
Virginia,  where  lived  Mildred  Lindsay,  with  whom  he  was  in 
love.  Mildred  Lindsay's  father  was  loyal  to  the  king  and  did 
not  look  with  favor  upon  Butler's  suit  since  he  had  entered  the 
Continental  army.  Mildred's  father  favored  T.yrrel,  who  had 
been  sent  from  England  to  look  after  the  king's  interest. 
Lender  these  circumstances  it  was  impossible  for  Butler  to  do 
more  than  to  see  Mildred  secretly  on  the  river  bank.  At 
Mrs.  Dimock's  inn,  where  Butler  and  Horseshoe  were  to  spend 
the  night,  they  met  with  James  Curry,  an  attendant  of  Tyrrel, 
who  was  carefully  watched  by  Horseshoe  under  the  suspicion 
that  he  might  be  a  spy.  A  quarrel  ensued,  followed  by  a  fight 
in  which  Curry  was  worsted.  The  next  morning  the  captain 
and  his  companion  left  early,  and  after  a  journey  of  a  week 
they  reached  the  headquarters  of  General  Gates.  Finding  no 
need  for  his  services  there,  Butler  continued  his  way,  according 
to  instructions,  to  join  Colonel  Clarke,  who  was  in  the  mountains 


72      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

of  South  Carolina  raising  troops.  Horseshoe  conducted  him  by 
a  circuitous  route  to  the  house  of  Wat  Adair,  a  well-known 
mountaineer,  whose  good  will  they  wished  to  obtain.  But  Adair 
gave  the  travelers  away  to  the  Tories  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of 
Mary  Musgrove,  a  mountain  girl,  to  warn  Butler.  Adair  accom 
panied  Horseshoe  and  Butler  on  their  departure,  in  order  to 
show  them  the  road.] 

CAPTURE  OF  BUTLER  AND  HORSESHOE 

Meantime  Butler  and  Robinson  advanced  at  a  wearied  pace. 
The  twilight  had  so  far  faded  as  to  be  only  discernible  on  the 
western  sky.  The  stars  were  twinkling  through  the  leaves  of 
the  forest,  and  the  light  of  the  firefly  spangled  the  wilderness. 
The  road  .might  be  descried,  in  the  most  open  parts  of  the 
wood,  for  some  fifty  paces  ahead ;  but  where  the  shrubbery 
was  more  dense,  it  was  lost  in  utter  darkness.  Our  travelers, 
like  most  wayfarers  towards  the  end  of  the  day,  rode  silently 
along,  seldom  exchanging  a  word  and  anxiously  computing  the 
distance  which  they  had  yet  to  traverse  before  they  reached 
their  appointed  place  of  repose.  A  sense  of  danger,  and  the 
necessity  for  vigilance,  on  the  present  occasion,  made  them  the 
more  silent. 

"I  thought  I  heard -a  wild  sort  of  yell  just  now  —  people 
laughing  a  great  way  off,"  said  Robinson,  "  but  there  's  such  a 
hooting  of  owls  and  piping  of  frogs  that  I  mought  have  been 
mistaken.  Halt,  major.  Let  me  listen  —  there  it  is  again." 

"It  is  the  crying  of  a  panther,  sergeant ;  more  than  a  mile 
from  us,  by  my  ear." 

"It  is  mightily  like  the  scream  of  drunken  men,"  replied 
the  sergeant ;  "  and  there,  too !  I  thought  I  heard  the  clatter 
of  a  hoof." 

The  travelers  again  reined  up  and  listened. 


JOHN    PENDLETON    KENNEDY 


73 


"It  is  more  like  a  deer  stalking  through  the  bushes,  Gal- 
braith." 

"  No,"  exclaimed  the  sergeant,  "  that 's  the  gallop  of  a 
horse  making  down  the  road  ahead  of  us,  as  sure  as  you 


MAJOR  BUTLER  AND  HORSESHOE  ROBINSON 

Reproduction  of  vignette  on  title-page  of  original  edition  of 
"  Horseshoe  Robinson  " 

are  alive ;   I  heard  the  shoe  strike  a  stone.    You  must  have 

hearn  it,  too." 

"  I  would  n?t  be  sure,"  answered  Butler. 

"  Look  to  your  pistols,  major,  and  prime  afresh." 

"  We  seem  to  have  ridden  a  great  way,"  said  Butler,  as  he 

concluded  the  inspection  of  his  pistols  and  now  held  one  of 


74      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

them  ready  in  his  hand.  "  Can  we  have  lost  ourselves  ?  Should 
we  not  have  reached  the  Pacolet  before  this  ? " 

"  I  have  seen  no  road  that  could  take  us  astray,"  replied 
Robinson,  "  and,  by  what  we  were  told  just  before  sundown,  I 
should  guess  that  we  could  n't  be  far  off  the  ford.  We  have  n't 
then  quite  three  miles  to  Christie's.  Well,  courage,  major ! 
supper  and  bed  were  never  spoiled  by  the  trouble  of  getting 
to  them." 

"  Wat  Adair,  I  think,  directed  us  to  Christie's  ? "  said  Butler. 

"  He  did ;  and  I  had  a  mind  to  propose  to  you,  since  we 
caught  him  in  a  trick  this  morning,  to  make  for  some  other 
house,  if  such  a  thing  was  possible,  or  else  to  spend  the  night 
in  the  woods." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  wise,  sergeant ;  and  if  you  think  so 
still,  I  will  be  ruled  by  you." 

"  If  we  once  got  by  the  riverside,  where  our  horses  mought 
have  water,  I  almost  think  I  should  advise  a  halt  there.  Al 
though  I  have  made  one  observation,  Major  Butler  —  that 
running  water  is  lean  fare  for  a  hungry  man.  Howsever,  it 
won't  hurt  us,  and  if  you  say  the  word  we  will  stop  there." 

"  Then,  sergeant,  I  do  say  the  word." 

"  Is  n't  that  the  glimmering  of  a  light  yonder  in  the  bushes?" 
inquired  Horseshoe,  as  he  turned  his  gaze  in  the  direction  of 
the  bivouac,  "or  is  it  these  here  lightning  bugs  that  keep  so 
busy  shooting  about?" 

"  I  thought  I  saw  the  light  you  speak  of,  Galbraith ;  but  it 
has  disappeared." 

"  It  is  there  again,  major ;  and  I  hear  the  rushing  of  the 
river  —  we  are  near  the  ford.  Perhaps  this  light  comes  from 
some  cabin  on  the  bank." 

"  God  send  that  it  should  turn  out  so,  Galbraith !  for  I  am 
very  weary." 

"  There  is  some  devilment  going  on  in  these  woods,  major. 


JOHN   PENDLETON   KENNEDY  75 

I  saw  a  figure  pass  in  front  of  the  light  through  the  bushes. 
I  would  be  willing  to  swear  it  was  a  man  on  horseback. 
Perhaps  we  have,  by  chance,  fallen  on  some  Tory  muster ;  or, 
what 's  not  so  likely,  they  may  be  friends.  I  think  I  will  ride 
forward  and  challenge." 

"  Better  pass  unobserved,  if  you  can,  sergeant,"  interrupted 
Butler.  "  It  will  not  do  for  us  to  run  the  risk  of  being  sepa 
rated.  Here  we  are  at  the  river ;  let  us  cross,  and  ride  some 
distance ;  then,  if  any  one  follow  us,  we  shall  be  more  certain 
of  his  design." 

They  now  cautiously  advanced  into  the  river,  which,  though 
rapid,  was  shallow ;  and  having  reached  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  they  halted  to  allow  their  horses  water. 

"  Captain  Peter  is  as  thirsty  as  a  man  in  a  fever,"  said 
Horseshoe.  "  He  drinks  as  if  he  was  laying  in  for  a  week. 
Now,  major,  since  we  are  here  in  the  river,  look  up  the  stream. 
Don't  you  see,  from  the  image  in  the  water,  that  there  's  a  fire 
on  the  bank?  And  there,  by  my  soul!  there  are  men  on 
horseback.  Look  towards  the  light.  Spur,  and  out  on  the 
other  side  !  Quick  —  quick  —  they  are  upon  us  !  " 

At  the  same  instant  that  Horseshoe  spoke  a  bullet  whistled 
close  by  his  ear,  and  in  the  next,  six  or  eight  men  galloped 
into  the  river  from  different  points.  This  was  succeeded  by  a 
sharp  report  of  firearms  from  both  parties,  and  the  vigorous 
charge  of  Robinson,  followed  by  Butler,  through  the  array  of 
the  assailants.  They  gained  the  opposite  bank  and  now  di 
rected  all  their  efforts  to  outrun  their  pursuers ;  but  in  the  very 
crisis  of  their  escape  Butler's  horse,  bounding  under  the  prick 
of  the  spur,  staggered  a  few  paces  from  the  river  and  fell  dead. 
A  bullet  had  lodged  in  a  vital  part,  and  the  energy  of  the  brave 
steed  was  spent  in  the  effort  to  bear  his  master  through  the 
stream.  Butler  fell  beneath  the  stricken  animal,  from  whence 
he  was  unable  to  extricate  himself.  The  sergeant,  seeing  his 


76      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

comrade's  condition,  sprang  from  his  horse  and  ran  to  his 
assistance,  and,  in  the  same  interval,  the  ruffian  followers 
gained  the  spot  and  surrounded  their  prisoners.  An  ineffectual 
struggle  ensued  over  the  prostrate  horse  and  rider,  in  which 
Robinson  bore  down  more  than  one  of  his  adversaries,  but  was 
obliged,  at  last,  to  yield  to  the  overwhelming  power  that  pressed 
upon  him. 

"  Bury  your  swords  in  both  of  them  to  the  hilts ! "  shouted 
Habershaw  ;  "  I  don't  want  to  have  that  work  to  do  to-morrow." 

"  Stand  off !  "  cried  Gideon  Blake,  as  two  or  three  of  the 
gang  sprang  forward  to  execute  their  captain's  order ;  "  stand 
off !  the  man  is  on  his  back,  and  he  shall  not  be  murdered  in 
cold  blood "  ;  and  the  speaker  took  a  position  near  Butler, 
prepared  to  make  good  his  resolve.  The  spirit  of  Blake  had 
its  desired  effect,  and  the  same  assailants  now  turned  upon 
Robinson. 

"  Hold ! "  cried  Peppercorn,  throwing  up  his  sword  and 
warding  off  the  blows  that  were  aimed  by  these  men  at  the 
body  of  the  sergeant.  "  Hold,  you  knaves  !  this  is  my  prisoner. 
I  will  deal  with  him  to  my  liking.  Would  a  dozen  of  you  strike 
one  man  when  he  has  surrendered  ?  Back,  ye  cowards ;  leave 
him  to  me.  How  now,  old  Horseshoe ;  are  you  caught,  with 
your  gay  master  here  ?  Come,  come,  we  know  you  both.  So 
yield  with  a  good  grace,  lest,  peradventure,  I  might  happen  to 
blow  out  your  brains." 

"  Silence,  fellows  !  You  carrion  crows  !  "  roared  Habershaw. 
"  Remember  the  discipline  I  taught  you.  No  disorder,  nor  con 
fusion,  but  take  the  prisoners,  since  you  hav'  n't  the  heart  to 
strike;  take  them  to  the  rendezvous.  And  do  it  quietly — do  you 
hear  ?  Secure  the  baggage  ;  and  about  it  quickly,  you  hounds!" 

Butler  was  now  lifted  from  the  ground,  and,  with  his  com-, 
panion,  was  taken  into  the  custody  of  Blake  and  one  or  two  of 
his  companions,  who  seemed  to  share  in  his  desire  to  prevent  the 


JOHN    PENDLETON    KENNEDY  77 

shedding  of  blood.  The  prisoners  were  each  mounted  behind 
one  of  the  troopers,  and  in  this  condition  conducted  across  the 
river.  The  saddle  and  other  equipments  were  stripped  from 
the  major's  dead  steed ;  and  Robinson's  horse,  Captain  Peter, 
was  burdened  with  the  load  of  two  wounded  men,  whose 
own  horses  had  escaped  from  them  in  the  fray.  In  this  guise 
the  band  of  freebooters,  with  their  prisoners  and  spoils,  slowly 
and  confusedly  made  their  way  to  the  appointed  place  of  re 
assembling.  In  a  few  moments  they  were  ranged  beneath  the 
chestnut,  waiting  for  orders  from  their  self-important  and  vain 
commander. 

[The  next  day  Horseshoe  Robinson  managed  to  escape  and 
bent  all  his  ingenuity  to  bring  about  the  freedom  of  Butler. 
While  endeavoring  to  accomplish  this,  he  meets  with  the  fol 
lowing  adventure.] 

HORSESHOE  CAPTURES  FIVE  PRISONERS 

David  Ramsay's  house  was  situated  on  a  byroad,  between 
five  and  six  miles  from  Musgrove's  mill,  and  at  about  the 
distance  of  one  mile  from  the  principal  route  of  travel  between 
Ninety-Six  and  Blackstock's.  In  passing  from  the  military  post 
that  had  been  established  at  the  former  place,  towards'  the 
latter,  Ramsay's  lay  off  to  the  left,  with  a  piece  of  dense  wood 
intervening.  The  byway,  leading  through  the  farm,  diverged 
from  the  main  road  and  traversed  this  wood  until  it  reached 
the  cultivated  grounds  immediately  around  Ramsay's  dwelling. 
In  the  journey  from  Musgrove's  mill  to  this  point  of  diver 
gence  the  traveler  was  obliged  to  ride  some  two  or  three  miles 
upon  the  great  road  leading  from  the  British  garrison,  a  road 
that,  at  the  time  of  my  story,  was  much  frequented  by  military 
parties,  scouts,  and  patrols,  that  were  concerned  in  keeping 
up  the  communication  between  the  several  posts  which  were 


78      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

established  by  the  British  authorities  along  that  frontier. 
Amongst  the  Whig  parties,  also,  there  were  various  occasions 
which  brought  them  under  the  necessity  of  frequent  passage 
through  this  same  district,  and  which,  therefore,  furnished  op 
portunities  for  collision  and  skirmish  with  the  opposite  forces. 

On  the  morning  that  succeeded  the  night  in  which  Horse 
shoe  Robinson  arrived  at  Musgrove's,  the  stout  and  honest 
sergeant  might  have  been  seen,  about  eight  o'clock,  leaving  the 
main  road  from  Ninety-Six,  at  the  point  where  that  leading  to 
David  Ramsay's  separated  from  it,  and  cautiously  urging  his 
way  into  the  deep  forest  by  the  more  private  path  into  which 
he  had  entered.  The  knowledge  that  Innis  was  encamped 
along  the  Ennoree  within  a  short  distance  of  the  mill  had 
compelled  him  to  make  an  extensive  circuit  to  reach  Ramsay's 
dwelling,  whither  he  was  now  bent ;  and  he  had  experienced 
considerable  delay  in  his  morning  journey  by  finding  himself 
frequently  in  the  neighborhood  of  small  foraging  parties  of 
Tories  whose  motions  he  was  obliged  to  watch  for  fear  of  an 
encounter.  He  had  once  already  been  compelled  to  use  his 
horse's  heels  in  what  he  called  "  fair  flight,"  and  once  to 
ensconce  himself  a  full  half  hour  under  cover  of  the  thicket 
afforded  him  by  a  swamp.  He  now,  therefore,  according  to  his 
own  phrase,  "  dived  into  the  little  road  that  scrambled  down 
through  the  woods  towards  Ramsay's,  with  all  his  eyes  about 
him,  looking  out  as  sharply  as  a  fox  on  a  foggy  morning  "  ; 
and  with  this  circumspection  he  was  not  long  in  arriving  within 
view  of  Ramsay's  house.  Like  a  practiced  soldier,  whom 
frequent  frays  has  taught  wisdom,  he  resolved  to  reconnoiter 
before  he  advanced  upon  a  post  that  might  be  in  possession  of 
an  enemy.  He  therefore  dismounted,  fastened  his  horse  in  a 
fence  corner,  where  a  field  of  corn  concealed  him  from  notice, 
and  then  stealthily  crept  forward  until  he  came  immediately 
behind  one  of  the  outhouses. 


JOHN   PENDLETON   KENNEDY  79 

The  barking  of  a  house  dog  brought  out  a  negro  boy,  to 
whom  Robinson  instantly  addressed  the  query, 

"Is  your  master  at  home  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  He  's  got  his  horse,  and  gone  off  more  than  an 
hour  ago." 

"  Where  is  your  mistress  ?  " 

"  Shelling  beans,  sir." 

"  I  didn't  ask  you,"  said  the  sergeant,  "what  she  is  doing, 
but  where  she  is." 

"  In  course,  she  is  in  the  house,  sir,"  replied  the  negro 
with  a  grin. 

"  Any  strangers  there  ? " 

"  There  was  plenty  on  'em  a  little  while  ago,  but  they  Ve 
been  gone  a  good  bit." 

Robinson,  having  thus  satisfied  himself  as  to  the  safety  of  his 
visit,  directed  the  boy  to  take  his  horse  and  lead  him  up  to  the 
door.  He  then  entered  the  dwelling. 

"  Mistress  Ramsay,"  said  he,  walking  up  to  the  dame,  who 
was  occupied  at  a  table,  with  a  large  trencher  before  her,  in 
which  she  was  plying  that  household  thrift  which  the  negro 
described ;  "  luck  to  you,  ma'am,  and  all  your  house !  I  hope 
you  haven't  none  of  these  clinking  and  clattering  bullies  about 
you,  that  are  as  thick  over  this  country  as  the  frogs  in  the 
kneading  troughs,  that  they  tell  of." 

"  Good  lack,  Mr.  Horseshoe  Robinson,"  exclaimed  the 
matron,  offering  the  sergeant  her  hand.  "  What  has  brought 
you  here  ?  What  news  ?  Who  are  with  you  ?  For  patience' 
sake,  tell  me  !  " 

"  I  am  alone,"  said  Robinson,  "  and  a  little  wettish,  mistress," 
he  added,  as  he  took  off  his  hat  and  shook  the  water  from  it ; 
"  it  has  just  sot  up  a  rain,  and  looks  as  if  it  was  going  to  give 
us  enough  on  't.  You  don't  mind  doing  a  little  dinner  work  of 
a  Sunday,  I  see  —  shelling  of  beans,  I  s'pose,  is  tantamount  to 


80      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

dragging  a  sheep  out  of  a  pond,  as  the  preachers  allow  on  the 
Sabbath  —  ha,  ha  !  —  Where  's  Davy  ?  " 

"  He  's  gone  over  to  the  meetinghouse  on  Ennoree,  hoping 
to  hear  something  of  the  army  at  Camden  ;  perhaps  you  can 
tell  us  the  news  from  that  quarter  ? " 

"  Faith,  that 's  a  mistake,  Mistress  Ramsay.  Though  I  don't 
doubt  that  they  are  hard  upon  the  scratches  by  this  time.  But, 
at  this  present  speaking,  I  command  the  flying  artillery.  We 
have  but  one  man  in  the  corps  —  and  that 's  myself ;  and  all 
the  guns  we  have  got  is  this  piece  of  ordinance  that  hangs  in 
this  old  belt  by  my  side  (pointing  to  his  sword),  and  that  I  cap 
tured  from  the  enemy  at  Blackstock's.  I  was  hoping  I  mought 
find  John  Ramsay  at  home  —  I  have  need  of  him  as  a  recruit." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Robinson,  John  has  a  heavy  life  of  it  over  there 
with  Sumpter.  The  boy  is  often  without  his  natural  rest,  or  a 
meal's  victuals,  and  the  general  thinks  so  much  of  him  that 
he  can't  spare  him  to  come  home.  I  haven't  the  heart  to 
complain  as  long  as  John's  service  is  of  any  use,  but  it  does 
seem,  Mr.  Robinson,  like  needless  tempting  of  the  mercies  of 
Providence.  We  thought  that  he  might  have  been  here  to-day ; 
yet  I  am  glad  he  did  n't  come,  for  he  would  have  been  cer 
tain  to  get  into  trouble.  Who  should  come  in  this  morning, 
just  after  my  husband  had  cleverly  got  away  on  his  horse,  but 
a  young  cock-a-whoop  ensign  that  belongs  to  Ninety-Six,  and 
four  .great  Scotchmen  with  him,  all  in  red  coats  ;  they  had  been 
out  thieving,  I  warrant,  and  were  now  going  home  again.  And 
who  but  they  !  Here  they  were,  swaggering  all  about  my  house, 
and  calling  for  this,  and  calling  for  that  as  if  they  owned  the 
feesimple  of  everything  on  the  plantation.  And  it  made  my 
blood  rise,  Mr.  Horseshoe,  to  see  them  run  out  in  the  yard  and 
catch  up  my  chickens  and  ducks,  and  kill  as  many  as  they 
could  string  about  them  —  and  I  not  daring  to  say  a  word, 
though  I  did  give  them  a  piece  of  my  mind,  too." 


JOHN   PENDLETON    KENNEDY  8 I 

"  Who  is  at  home  with  you  ?  "  inquired  the  sergeant,  eagerly. 

"  Nobody  but  my  youngest  boy,  Andrew,''  answered  the 
dame.  "  And  then  the  filthy,  toping  rioters  —  "  she  continued, 
exalting  her  voice. 

"What  arms  have  you  in  the  house?"  asked  Robinson, 
without  heeding  the  dame's  rising  anger. 

"  We  have  a  rifle,  and  a  horseman's  pistol  that  belongs  to 
John.  They  must  call  for  drink,  too,  and  turn  my  house  of  a 
Sunday  morning  into  a  tavern." 

"  They  took  the  route  towards  Ninety-Six,  you  said,  Mistress 
Ramsay  ? " 

"  Yes ;  they  went  straight  forward  upon  the  road.  But, 
look  you,  Mr.  Horseshoe,  you  're  not  thinking  of  going  after 
them?" 

"  Is  n't  there  an  old  field,  about  a  mile  from  this,  on  that 
road  ?  "  inquired  the  sergeant,  still  intent  upon  his  own 
thoughts. 

"  There  is,"  replied  the  dame ;  "  with  the  old  schoolhouse 
upon  it." 

"  A  lopsided,  rickety,  log  cabin  in  the  middle  of  the  field. 
Am  I  right,  good  woman  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  nobody  lives  in  it  ?    It  has  no  door  to  it  ?  " 

"  There  ha'n't  been  anybody  in  it  these  seven  years." 

"  I  know  the  place  very  well,"  said  the  sergeant,  thought 
fully  ;  "  there  is  woods  just  on  this  side  of  it." 

"  That 's  true,"  replied  the  dame ;  "  but  what  is  it  you  are 
thinking  about,  Mr.  Robinson  ?  " 

"  How  long  before  this  rain  began  was  it  that  they  quitted 
this  house  ? " 

"  Not  above  fifteen  minutes." 

"  Mistress  Ramsay,  bring  me  the  rifle  and  pistol  both  —  and 
the  powderhorn  and  bullets." 


82      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"  As  you  say,  Mr.  Horseshoe,"  answered  the  dame,  as  she 
turned  round  to  leave  the  room ;  "  but  I  am  sure  I  can't 
suspicion  what  you  mean  to  do." 

In  a  few  moments  the  woman  returned  with  the  weapons, 
and  gave  them  to  the  sergeant. 

"  Where  is  Andy  ?  "  asked  Horseshoe. 

The  hostess  went  to  the  door  and  called  her  son,  and  almost 
immediately  afterwards  a  sturdy  boy  of  about  twelve  or  four 
teen  years  of  age  entered  the  apartment,  his  clothes  dripping 
with  rain.  He  modestly  and  shyly  seated  himself  on  a  chair 
near  the  door,  with  his  soaked  hat  flapping  down  over  a  face 
full  of  freckles,  and  not  less  rife  with  the  expression  of  an 
open,  dauntless  hardihood  of  character. 

"  How  would  you  like  a  scrummage,  Andy,  with  them 
Scotchmen  that  stole  your  mother's  chickens  this  morning  ? " 
asked  Horseshoe. 

"  I'm  agreed,"  replied  the  boy,  "  if  you  will  tell  me  what 
to  do." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  take  the  boy  out  on  any  of  your 
desperate  projects,  Mr.  Horseshoe  ? "  said  the  mother,  with  the 
tears  starting  instantly  into  her  eyes.  "  You  would  n't  take 
such  a  child  as  that  into  danger  ? " 

"  Bless  your  soul,  Mrs.  Ramsay,  there  ar'n't  no  danger 
about  it !  Don't  take  on  so.  It 's  a  thing  that  is  either  done  at 
a  blow,  or  not  done,  —  and  there  's  an  end  of  it.  I  want  the 
lad  only  to  bring  home  the  prisoners  for  me,  after  I  have 
took  them." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Robinson,  I  have  one  son  already  in  these  wars 
—  God  protect  him  !  —  and  you  men  don't  know  how  a 
mother's  heart  yearns  for  her  children  in  these  times.  I  can 
not  give  another,"  she  added,  as  she  threw  her  arms  over  the 
shoulders  of  the  youth  and  drew  him  to  her  bosom. 

"Qh!  it  ain't  nothing,"  said  Andrew,  in  a  sprightly  tone. 


JOHN   PENDLETON   KENNEDY  83 

"It's  only  snapping  of  a  pistol,  mother, —  pooh!  If  I'm  not 
afraid,  you  ought  n't  to  be." 

"  I  give  you  my  honor,  Mistress  Ramsay,"  said  Robinson, 
"  that  I  will  bring  or  send  your  son  safe  back  in  One  hour ;  and 
that  he  sha'n't  be  put  in  any  sort  of  danger  whatsomedever ; 
come,  that 's  a  good  woman  !  " 

"  You  are  not  deceiving  me,  Mr.  Robinson  ? "  asked  the 
matron,  wiping  away  a  tear.  "  You  would  n't  mock  the  suffer 
ings  of  a  weak  woman  in  such  a  thing  as  this  ? " 

"  On  the  honesty  of  a  sodger,  ma'am,"  replied  Horseshoe, 
"  the  lad  shall  be  in  no  danger,  as  I  said  before  —  what 
somedever." 

"  Then  I  will  say  no  more,"  answered  the  mother.  "  But 
Andy,  my  child,  be  sure  to  let  Mr.  Robinson  keep  before  you." 

Horseshoe  now  loaded  the  firearms,  and  having  slung  the 
pouch  across  his  body,  he  put  the  pistol  into  the  hands  of 
the  boy  ;  then,  shouldering  his  rifle,  he  and  his  young  ally  left  the 
room.  Even  on  this  occasion,  serious  as  it  might  be  deemed, 
the  sergeant  did  not  depart  without  giving  some  manifestation 
of  that  light-heartedness  which  no  difficulties  ever  seemed  to 
have  the  power  to  conquer.  He  thrust  his  head  back  into  the 
room,  after  he  had  crossed  the  threshold,  and  said  with  an 
encouraging  laugh.  "  Andy  and  me  will  teach  them,  Mistress 
Ramsay,  Pat's  point  of  war — we  will  surround  \h&  ragamuffins." 

"  Now,  Andy,  my  lad,"  said  Horseshoe,  after  he  had  mounted 
Captain  Peter,  "you  must  get  up  behind  me.  Turn  the  lock 
of  your  pistol  down,"  he  continued,  as  the  boy  sprang  upon 
the  horse's  rump,  "  and  cover  it  with  the  flap  of  your  jacket,  to 
keep  the  rain  off.  It  won't  do  to  hang  fire  at  such  a  time  as  this." 

The  lad  did  as  he  was  directed,  and  Horseshoe,  having 
secured  his  rifle  in  the  same  way,  put  his  horse  up  to  a  gallop, 
and  took  the  road  in  the  direction  that  had  been  pursued  by 
the  soldiers. 


84      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

As  soon  as  our  adventurers  had  gained  a  wood,  at  the  dis 
tance  of  about  half  a  mile,  the  sergeant  relaxed  his  speed,  and 
advanced  at  a  pace  a  little  above  a  walk. 

"  Andy,"  he  said,  "  we  have  got  rather  a  ticklish  sort  of  a 
job  before  us,  so  I  must  give  you  your  lesson,  which  you  will 
understand  better  by  knowing  something  of  my  plan.  As  soon 
as  your  mother  told  me  that  these  thieving  villains  had  left  her 
house  about  fifteen  minutes  before  the  rain  came  on,  and  that 
they  had  gone  along  upon  this  road,  I  remembered  the  old  field 
up  here,  and  the  little  log  hut  in  the  middle  of  it ;  and  it  was 
natural  to  suppose  that  they  had  just  got  about  near  that  hut 
when  this  rain  came  up ;  and  then,  it  was  the  most  supposable 
case  in  the  world  that  they  would  naturally  go  into  it,  as  the 
dryest  place  they  could  find.  So  now,  you  see,  it 's  my  calcula 
tion  that  the  whole  batch  is  there  at  this  very  point  of  time. 
We  will  go  slowly  along,  until  we  get  to  the  other  end  of  this 
wood,  in  sight  of  the  old  field,  and  then,  if  there  is  no  one  on 
the  lookout,  we  will  open  our  first  trench ;  you  know  what  that 
means,  Andy  ? " 

"  It  means,  I  s'pose,  that  we  '11  go  right  smack  at  them," 
replied  Andrew. 

"  Pretty  exactly,"  said  the  sergeant.  "  But  listen  to  me. 
Just  at  the  edge  of  the  woods  you  will  have  to  get  down  and 
put  yourself  behind  a  tree.  I  '11  ride  forward,  as  if  I  had  a  whole 
troop  at  my  heels,  and  if  I  catch  them,  as  I  expect,  they  will 
have  a  little  fire  kindled,  and,  as  likely  as  not,  they  '11  be  cooking 
some  of  your  mother's  fowls." 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  said  the  boy  eagerly,  — 

"  No,  you  don't,"  replied  Horseshoe,  "  but  you  will  when  you 
hear  what  I  am  going  to  say.  If  I  get  at  them  onawares,  they  '11 
be  mighty  apt  to  think  they  are  surrounded,  and  will  bellow, 
like  fine  fellows,  for  quarter.  And  thereupon,  Andy,  I  '11  cry 
out  *  stand  fast,'  as  if  I  was  speaking  to  my  own  men,  and 


JOHN   PENDLETON   KENNEDY  85 

when  you  hear  that,  you  must  come  up  full  tilt,  because  it  will 
be  a  signal  to  you  that  the  enemy  has  surrendered.  Then  it 
will  be  your  business  to  run  into  the  house  and  bring  out  the 
muskets,  as  quick  as  a  rat  runs  through  a  kitchen ;  and  when 
you  have  done  that,  why,  all 's  done.  But  if  you  should  hear 
any  popping  of  firearms  —  that  is,  more  than  one  shot,  which 
I  may  chance  to  let  off  —  do  you  take  that  for  a  bad  sign,  and 
get  away  as  fast  as  you  can  heel  it.  You  comprehend." 

"  Oh  !  yes,"  replied  the  lad,  "  and  I  ?11  do  what  you  want,  and 
more  too,  maybe,  Mr.  Robinson." 

"  Captai?i  Robinson,  —  remember,  Andy,  you  must  call  me 
captain,  in  the  hearing  of  these  Scotsmen." 

"  I  '11  not  forget  that  neither,"  answered  Andrew. 

By  the  time  that  these  instructions  were  fully  impressed  upon 
the  boy,  our  adventurous  forlorn  hope,  as  it  may  fitly  be  called, 
had  arrived  at  the  place  which  Horseshoe  Robinson  had 
designated  for  the  commencement  of  active  operations.  They 
had  a  clear  view  of  the  old  field,  and  it  afforded  them  a  strong 
assurance  that  the  enemy  was  exactly  where  they  wished  him 
to  Ipe,  when  they  discovered  smoke  arising  from  the  chimney 
of  the  hovel.  Andrew  was  soon  posted  behind  a  tree,  and 
Robinson  only  tarried  a  moment  to  make  the  boy  repeat  the 
signals  agreed  on,  in  order  to  ascertain  that  he  had  them  correctly 
in  his  memory.  Being  satisfied  from  this  experiment  that  the 
intelligence  of  his  young  companion  might  be  depended  upon, 
he  galloped  across  the  intervening  space,  and,  in  a  few  seconds, 
abruptly  reined  up  his  steed  in  the  very  doorway  of  the  hut. 
The  party  within  was  gathered  around  a  fire  at  the  further  end, 
and,  in  the  corner  near  the  door,  were  four  muskets  thrown 
together  against  the  wall.  To  spring  from  his  saddle  and  thrust 
himself  one  pace  within  the  door  was  a  movement  which  the 
sergeant  executed  in  an  instant,  shouting  at  the  same  time :  — 

"  Halt !    File  off  right  and  left  to  both  sides  of  the  house, 


86      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

and  wait  orders.  I  demand  the  surrender  of  all  here,"  he  said, 
as  he  planted  himself  between  the  party  and  their  weapons. 
"  I  will  shoot  down  the  first  man  who  budges  a  foot." 

"  Leap  to  your  arms,"  cried  the  young  officer  who  commanded 
the  little  party  inside  of  the  house.  "  Why  do  you  stand  ? " 

"  I  don't  want  to  do  you  or  your  men  any  harm,  young  man," 
said  Robinson,  as  he  brought  his  rifle  to  a  level,  "  but,  by  my 
father's  son,  I  will  not  leave  one  of  you  to  be  put  upon  a 
muster  roll  if  you  raise  a  hand  at  this  moment." 

Both  parties  now  stood,  for  a  brief  space,  eyeing  each  other 
in  a  fearful  suspense,  during  which  there  was  an  expression  of 
doubt  and  irresolution  visible  on  the  countenance  of  the  soldiers, 
as  they  surveyed  the  broad  proportions  and  met  the  stern 
glance  of  the  sergeant,  whilst  the  delay,  also,  began  to  raise 
an  apprehension  in  the  mind  of  Robinson  that  his  stratagem 
would  be  discovered. 

"  Shall  I  let  loose  upon  them,  captain  ? "  said  Andrew 
Ramsay,  now  appearing,  most  unexpectedly  to  Robinson,  at 
the  door  of  the  hut.  "  Come  on,  boys ! "  he  shouted,  as  he 
turned  his  face  towards  the  field. 

"Keep  them  outside  of  the  door  —  stand  fast,"  cried  the 
doughty  sergeant,  with  admirable  promptitude,  in  the  new  and 
sudden  posture  of  his  affairs  caused  by  this  opportune  appear 
ance  of  the  boy.  "  Sir,  you  see  that  it 's  not  worth  while 
fighting  five  to  one ;  and  I  should  be  sorry  to  be  the  death  of 
any  of  your  brave  fellows ;  so  take  my  advice,  and  surrender 
to  the  Continental  Congress  and  this  scrap  of  its  army  which 
I  command." 

During  this  appeal  the  sergeant  was  ably  seconded  by  the 
lad  outside,  who  was  calling  out  first  on  one  name  and  then  on 
another,  as  if  in  the  presence  of  a  troop.  The  device  succeeded, 
and  the  officer  within,  believing  the  forbearance  of  Robinson  to 
be  real,  at  length  said : 


JOHN   PENDLETON    KENNEDY  87 

"  Lower  your  rifle,  sir.  In  the  presence  of  a  superior  force, 
taken  by  surprise  and  without  arms,  it  is  my  duty  to  save 
bloodshed.  With  the  promise  of  fair  usage,  and  the  rights  of 
prisoners  of  war,  I  surrender  this  little  foraging  party  under 
my  command." 

"  I  '11  make  the  terms  agreeable,"  replied  the  sergeant. 
"  Never  doubt  me,  sir.  Right  hand  file,  advance,  and  receive 
the  arms  of  the  prisoners ! " 

"  I'm  here,  captain,"  said  Andrew,  in  a  conceited  tone,  as 
if  it  were  a  near  occasion  of  merriment ;  and  the  lad  quickly 
entered  the  house  and  secured  the  weapons,  retreating  with 
them  some  paces  from  the  door. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Horseshoe  to  the  ensign,  "  your  sword,  and 
whatever  else  you  mought  have  about  you  of  the  ammunitions 
of  war ! " 

The  officer  delivered  up  his  sword  and  a  pair  of  pocket  pistols. 

As  Horseshoe  received  these  tokens  of  victory,  he  asked,  with 
a  lambent  smile  and  what  he  intended  to  be  an  elegant  and 
condescending  composure,  "  Your  name,  sir,  if  I  mought  take 
the  freedom  ? " 

"  Ensign  St.  Jermyn,  of  his  Majesty's  seventy-first  regiment 
of  light  infantry." 

"  Ensign,  your  servant,"  added  Horseshoe,  still  preserving 
this  unusual  exhibition  of  politeness.  "  You  have  defended  your 
post  like  an  old  sodger,  although  you  ha'  n't  much  beard  on  your 
chin ;  but,  seeing  you  have  given  up,  you  shall  be  treated  like 
a  man  who  has  done  his  duty.  You  will  walk  out  now  and 
form  yourselves  in  line  at  the  door.  I  '11  engage  my  men 
shall  do  you  no  harm ;  they  are  of  a  marciful  breed." 

When  the  little  squad  of  prisoners  submitted  to  this  command 
and  came  to  the  door,  they  were  stricken  with  equal  astonish 
ment  and  mortification  to  find,  in  place  of  the  detachment  of 
cavalry  which  they  expected  to  see,  nothing  but  a  man,  a  boy, 


88      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

and  a  horse.  Their  first  emotions  were  expressed  in  curses, 
which  were  even  succeeded  by  laughter  from  one  or  two  of 
the  number.  There  seemed  to  be  a  disposition  on  the  part  of 
some  to  resist  the  authority  that  now  controlled  them ;  and 
sundry  glances  were  exchanged  which  indicated  a  purpose  to 
turn  upon  their  captors.  The  sergeant  no  sooner  perceived 
this  than  he  halted,  raised  his  rifle  to  his  breast,  and,  at  the 
same  instant,  gave  Andrew  Ramsay  an  order  to  retire  a  few 
paces  and  to  fire  one  of  the  captured  pieces  at  the  first  man 
who  opened  his  lips. 

"  By  my  hand,"  he  said,  ".if  I  find  any  trouble  in  taking 
you  all  five  safe  away  from  this  here  house,  I  will  thin  your  num 
bers  with  your  own  muskets !  And  that 's  as  good  as  if  I  had 
sworn  to  it." 

"  You  have  my  word,  sir,"  said  the  ensign  ;  "  lead  on." 

"  By  your  leave,  my  pretty  gentleman,  you  will  lead,  and 
I  '11  follow ! "  replied  Horseshoe.  "  It  may  be  a  new  piece 
of  drill  to  you ;  but  the  custom  is  to  give  the  prisoners  the 
post  of  honor." 

"  As  you  please,  sir,"  answered  the  ensign.  "  Where  do  you 
take  us  to  ?  " 

"  You  will  march  back  by  the  road  you  came,"  said  the 
sergeant. 

Finding  the  conqueror  determined  to  execute  summary  martial 
law  upon  the  first  who  should  mutiny,  the  prisoners  submitted, 
and  marched  in  double  file  from  the  hut  back  towards  Ramsay's 
-Horseshoe,  with  Captain  Peter's  bridle  dangling  over  his 
arm,  and  his  gallant  young  auxiliary  Andrew,  laden  with  double 
the  burden  of  Robinson  Crusoe  (having  all  the  firearms  packed 
upon  his  shoulders),  bringing  up  the  rear.  In  this  order  victors 
and  vanquished  returned  to  David  Ramsay's. 

"  Well,  I  have  brought  you  your  ducks  and  chickens  back, 
mistress,"  said  the  sergeant,  as  he  halted  the  prisoners  at  the 


JOHN   PENDLETON   KENNEDY  89 

door  ;  "  and  what 's  more,  I  have  brought  home  a  young  sodger 
that 's  worth  his  weight  in  gold.'' 

"  Heaven  bless  my  child !  my  brave  boy !  "  cried  the  mother, 
seizing  the  lad  in  her  arms,  unheeding  anything  else  in  the 
present  perturbation  of  her  feelings.  "  I  feared  ill  would  come 
of  it;  but  Heaven  has  preserved  him.  Did  he  behave  hand 
somely,  Mr.  Robinson  ?  But  I  am  sure  he  did." 

"  A  little  more  venturesome,  ma'am,  than  I  wanted  him  to 
be,"  replied  Horseshoe ;  "  but  he  did  excellent  service.  These 
are  his  prisoners,  Mistress  Ramsay ;  I  should  never  have  got 
them  if  it  had  n't  been  for  .Andy.  In  these  drumming  and  fifing 
times  the  babies  suck  in  quarrel  with  their  mother's  milk.  Show 
me  another  boy  in  America  that 's  made  more  prisoners  than 
there  was  men  to  fight  them  with,  that 's  all !  " 

[This  capture  of  the  British  ensign  Horseshoe  Robinson  was 
able  to  turn  to  good  account  as  a  means  of  saving  Butler.  He 
exacted  from  the  ensign  a  letter  to  his  British  companions  telling 
them  of  his  capture  and  begging  them  to  be  lenient  with  their 
prisoner,  Major  Butler,  in  order  that  his  life  might  not  be  for 
feit  for  any  harsh  treatment  to  Butler.  This  letter  reached  the 
British  just  in  time  to  stay  a  sentence  of  death  from  being 
pronounced  upon  Butler.  The  next  day  brought  the  news  of  a 
decisive  defeat  of  the  Americans  under  General  Gates,  and  this 
led  the  British  to  think  that  they  might  carry  out  the  sentence 
against  Butler  without  endangering  the  life  of  Ensign  Jermyn. 
Accordingly  Butler  was  notified  that  he  would  be  executed 
two  days  hence.  Horseshoe,  however,  brought  up  a  small  force 
of  Americans  to  attack  the  British  camp  just  in  time  to  save 
Butler's  life,  but  after  the  defeat  of  the  British  Butler  could  not 
be  found.  James  Curry  had  succeeded  in  conducting  him  from 
the  camp  at  the  beginning  of  the  engagement  and  eventually 
carried  him  to  Allen  Musgrove's  mill.  Through  the  aid  of 


QO      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN   SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Mary  Musgrove,  Butler  effected  his  escape,  but  in  a  short  time 
was  captured  by  another  Tory  party. 

In  the  meantime  Mildred  Lindsay,  hearing  of  Butler's  cap 
ture  through  letters  brought  from  him  by  Horseshoe  Robinson, 
had  started  from  her  home  at  Dove  Cote  with  her  brother  for 
Cornwallis'  headquarters  in  the  hope  of  securing  her  lover's 
safety.  While  in  Cornwallis'  camp  she  learned  of  Butler's 
escape  and  started  on  her  return  to  Virginia.  On  her  way  she 
met  Mary  Musgrove  and  her  father,  who  had  been  driven  from 
their  home  and  were  fleeing  to  the  North,  and  learned  from 
them  of  Butler's  recapture.  Immediately  she  turned  back  to 
follow  and  join  Butler,  accompanied  by  her  brother  Henry, 
Horseshoe  Robinson,  Mary  Musgrove,  and  Allen  Musgrove. 
This  party  journeyed  toward  Gilbert-town  unconscious  of  the 
fact  that  military  developments  were  bringing  the  British  troops 
under  Ferguson,  whose  prisoner  Butler  was,  in  the  same  direc 
tion.  In  the  meantime,  events  had  been  leading  up  to  the 
battle  of  King's  Mountain,  in  which  the  threads  of  the  story 
are  dramatically  brought  together  into  an  effective  climax.] 

THE  BATTLE  OF  KING'S  MOUNTAIN 

Towards  noon  the  army  reached  the  neighborhood  of 
King's  Mountain.  The  scouts  and  parties  of  the  advance  had 
brought  information  that  Ferguson  had  turned  aside  from  his 
direct  road  and  taken  post  upon  this  eminence,  where,  it  was 
evident,  he  meant  to  await  the  attack  of  his  enemy.  Campbell, 
therefore,  lost  no  time  in  pushing  forward  and  was  soon  re 
warded  with  a  view  of  the  object  of  his  pursuit.  Some  two  or 
three  miles  distant,  where  an  opening  through  the  forest  first 
gave  him  a  sight  of  the  mass  of  highland,  he  could  indistinctly 
discern  the  array  of  the  adverse  army  perched  on  the  very 
summit  of  the  hill. 


JOHN    PENDLETON    KENNEDY  91 

The  mountain  consists  of  an  elongated  ridge  rising  out  of 
the  bosom  of  an  uneven  country  to  the  height  of  perhaps  five 
hundred  feet,  and  presenting  a  level  line  of  summit,  or  crest, 
from  which  the  earth  slopes  down,  at  its  'southward  termination 
and  on  each  side,  by  an  easy  descent ;  whilst  northward  it  is 
detached  from  highlands  of  inferior  elevation  by  a  rugged  valley, 
thus  giving  it  the  character  of  an  insulated  promontory  not 
exceeding  half  a  mile  in  length.  At  the  period  to  which  our 
story  refers  it  was  covered,  except  in  a  few  patches  of  barren 
field  or  broken  ground,  with  a  growth  of  heavy  timber,  which 
was  so  far  free  from  underwood  as  in  no  great  degree  to  em 
barrass  the  passage  of  horsemen ;  and  through  this  growth  the 
eye  might  distinguish,  at  a  considerable  distance,  the  occasional 
masses  of  gray  rock  that  were  scattered  in  huge  bowlders  over 
its  summit  and  sides. 

The  adjacent  region  lying  south  from  the  mountain  was 
partially  cleared  and  in  cultivation,  presenting  a  limited  range 
of  open  ground,  over  which  the  march  of  Campbell  might  have 
been  revealed  in  frequent  glimpses  to  the  British  partisan  for 
some  three  or  four  miles.  We  may  suppose,  therefore,  that 
the  two  antagonists  watched  each  other  during  the  advance 
of  the  approaching  army  across  this  district  with  emotions 
of  various  and  deep  interest.  Campbell  drew  at  length  into 
a  ravine  which,  bounded  by  low  and  short  hills  and  shaded 
by  detached  portions  of  the  forest,  partly  concealed  his  troops 
from  the  view  of  the  enemy,  who  was  now  not  more  than 
half  a  mile  distant.  The  gorge  of  this  dell,  or  narrow  valley, 
opened  immediately  towards  the  southern  termination  of  the 
mountain ;  and  the  column  halted  a  short  distance  within, 
where  a  bare  knoll,  or  round,  low  hill,  crowned  with  rock, 
jutted  abruptly  over  the  road  and  constituted  the  only  im 
pediment  that  prevented  each  party  from  inspecting  the  array 
of  his  opponent. 


92      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

It  was  an  hour  after  noon,  and  the  present  halt  was  improved 
by  the  men  in  making  ready  for  battle.  Meanwhile  the  chief 
officers  met  together  in  front  and  employed  their  time  in  sur 
veying  the  localities  of  the  ground  upon  which  they  were  soon 
to  be  brought  to  action.  The  knoll  I  have  described  furnished 
a  favorable  position  for  this  observation,  and  thither  they  had 
already  repaired. 

I  turn  from  the  graver  and  more  important  matters  which 
may  be  supposed  to  have  occupied  the  thoughts  of  the  leaders, 
as  they  were  grouped  together  on  the  broad  rock,  to  a  subject 
which  was  at  this  moment  brought  to  their  notice  by  the  un 
expected  appearance  of  two  females  on  horseback,  on  the  road 
a  full  half  mile  in  the  rear  of  the  army,  and  who  were  now  ap 
proaching  at  a  steady  pace.  They  were  attended  by  a  man  who, 
even  thus  far  off,  showed  the  sedateness  of  age ;  and  a  short 
space  behind  them  rode  a  few  files  of  troopers  in  military  array. 

It  was  with  mingled  feelings  of  surprise  and  admiration  at 
the  courage  which  could  have  prompted  her  at  such  a  time  to 
visit  the  army  that  the  party  recognized  Mildred  Lindsay  and 
her  attendants  in  the  approaching  cavalcade.  These  emotions 
were  expressed  by  them  in  the  rough  and  hearty  phrase  of 
their  habitual  and  familiar  intercourse. 

"  Let  me  beg,  gentlemen,"  said  Campbell,  interrupting  them, 
"  that  you  speak  kindly  and  considerately  of  yonder  lady.  By 
my  honor,  I  have  never  seen  man  or  woman  with  a  more 
devoted  or  braver  heart.  Poor  girl !  —  she  has  nobly  followed 
Butler  through  his  afflictions  and  taken  her  share  of  suffering 
with  a  spirit  that  should  bring  us  all  to  shame.  Horseshoe 
Robinson,  who  has  squired  her  to  our  camp,  even  from  her 
father's  house,  speaks  of  a  secret  between  her  and  our  captive 
friend  that  tells  plainly  enough  to  my  mind  of  sworn  faith  and 
long-tried  love.  As  men  and  soldiers  we  should  reverence  it. 
Williams,  look  carefully  to  her  comfort  and  safety.  Go,  man, 


JOHN    PENDLETON    KENNEDY  93 

at  once  and  meet  her  on  the  road.  God  grant  that  this  day 
may  bring  an  end  to  her  grief ! "  .  .  . 

It  was  three  o'clock  before  these  arrangements  were  com 
pleted.  I  have  informed  my  reader  that  the  mountain  termi 
nated  immediately  in  front  of  the  outlet  from  the  narrow  dell  in 
which  Campbell's  army  had  halted,  its  breast  protruding  into 
the  plain  only  some  few  hundred  paces  from  the  head  of  the 
column,  whilst  the  valley,  that  forked  both  right  and  left,  af 
forded  an  easy  passage  along  the  base  on  either  side.  Ferguson 
occupied  the  very  summit,  and  now  frowned  upon  his  foe  from 
the  midst  of  a  host  confident  in  the  strength  of  their  position 
and  exasperated  by  the  pursuit  which  had  driven  them  into 
this  fastness. 

Campbell  resolved  to  assail  this  post  by  a  spirited  attack,  at 
the  same  moment,  in  front  and  on  the  flanks.  With  this  intent 
his  army  was  divided  into  three  equal  parts.  The  center  was 
reserved  to  himself  and  Shelby ;  the  right  was  assigned  to 
Sevier  and  M'Dowell ;  the  left,  to  Cleveland  and  Williams. 
These  two  latter  parties  were  to  repair  to  their  respective  sides 
of  the  mountain,  and  the  whole  were  to  make  the  onset  by 
scaling  the  heights  as  nearly  as  possible  at  the  same  instant. 

The  men,  before  they  marched  out  of  the  ravine,  had  dis 
mounted  and  picketed  their  horses  under  the  winding  shelter 
of  the  hills,  and,  being  now  separated  into  detached  columns 
formed  in  solid  order,  they  were  put  in  motion  to  reach  their 
allotted  posts.  The  Amherst  Rangers  were  retained  on  horse 
back  for  such  duty  as  might  require  speed  and  were  stationed 
close  in  the  rear  of  Campbell's  own  division,  which  now  merely 
marched  from  behind  the  shelter  of  the  knoll  and  halted  in  the 
view  of  the  enemy  until  sufficient  delay  should  be  afforded  to 
the  flanking  divisions  to  attain  their  ground. 

Mildred,  attended  by  Allen  Musgrove  and  his  daughter,  still 
maintained  her  position  on  the  knoll  and  from  this  height 


94      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

surveyed  the  preparations  for  combat  with  a  beating  heart.  The 
scene  within  her  view  was  one  of  intense  occupation.  The  air 
of  stern  resolve  that  sat  upon  every  brow  ;  the  silent  but  onward 
movement  of  the  masses  of  men  advancing  to  conflict ;  the  few 
brief  and  quick  words  of  command  that  fell  from  the  distance 
upon  her  ear ;  the  sullen  beat  of  the  hoof  upon  the  sod,  as  an 
occasional  horseman  sped  to  and  fro  between  the  more  remote 
bodies  and  the  center  division,  which  yet  stood  in  compact 
phalanx  immediately  below  her  at  the  foot  of  the  hill ;  then  the 
breathless  anxiety  of  her  companions  near  at  hand,  and  the  short 
note  of  dread  and  almost  terror  that  now  and  then  escaped 
from  the  lips  of  Mary  Musgrove,  as  the  maiden  looked  eagerly 
and  fearfully  abroad  over  the  plain — all  these  incidents  wrought 
upon  her  feelings  and  caused  her  to  tremble.  Yet  amidst  these 
novel  emotions  she  was  not  insensible  to  a  certain  lively  and 
even  pleasant  interest  arising  out  of  the  picturesque  character 
of  the  spectacle.  The  gay  sunshine  striking  aslant  these  mov 
ing  battalions,  lighting  up  their  fringed  and  many-colored 
hunting-shirts  and  casting  a  golden  hue  upon  their  brown  and 
weather-beaten  faces,  brought  out  into  warm  relief  the  chief 
characteristics  of  this  peculiar  woodland  army.  And  Mildred 
sometimes  forgot  her  fears  in  the  fleeting  inspiration  of  the 
sight,  as  she  watched  the  progress  of  an  advancing  column  —  at 
one  time  moving  in  close  ranks,  with  the  serried  thicket  of  rifles 
above  their  heads,  and  at  another  deploying  into  files  to  pass 
some  narrow  path,  along  which,  with  trailed  arms  and  bodies 
bent,  they  sped  with  the  pace  of  hunters  beating  the  hillside 
for  game.  The  tattered  and  service-stricken  banner  that  shook 
its  folds  in  the  wind  above  these  detached  bodies  likewise  lent 
its  charm  of  association  to  the  field  in  the  silence  and  stead 
fastness  of  the  array  in  which  it  was  borne,  and  its  constant 
onward  motion,  showing  it  to  be  encircled  by  strong  arms  and 
stout  hearts. 


JOHN    PENDLETON   KENNEDY  95 

Turning  from  these,  the  lady's  eye  was  raised,  with  a  less 
joyous  glance,  towards  the  position  of  the  enemy.  On  the  most 
prominent  point  of  the  mountain's  crest  she  could  descry  the 
standard  of  England  fluttering  above  a  concentrated  body  whose 
scarlet  uniforms,  as  the  sun  glanced  upon  them  through  the 
forest,  showed  that  here  Ferguson  had  posted  his  corps  of 
regulars  and  held  them  ready  to  meet  the  attack  of  the  center 
division  of  the  assailants ;  whilst  the  glittering  of  bayonets 
amidst  the  dark  foliage,  at  intervals,  rearward  along  the  line  of 
the  summit,  indicated  that  heavy  detachments  were  stationed 
in  this  quarter  to  guard  the  flanks.  The  marching  and  coun 
termarching  of  the  frequent  corps  from  various  positions  on 
the  summit,  the  speeding  of  officers  on  horseback,  and  the  occa 
sional  movement  of  small  squadrons  of  dragoons,  who  were  at 
one  moment  seen  struggling  along  the  sides  of  the  mountain 
and,  at  another,  descending  towards  the  base  or  returning  to 
the  summit,  disclosed  the  earnestness  and  activity  of  the  prep 
aration  with  which  a  courageous  soldier  may  be  supposed  to 
make  ready  for  his  foe. 

It  was  with  a  look  of  sorrowful  concern  which  brought  tears 
into  her  eyes  that  Mildred  gazed  upon  this  host  and  strained 
her  vision  in  the  vain  endeavor  to  catch  some  evidences  of  the 
presence  of  Arthur  Butler.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  Campbell  and  Shelby,  each  at  the  head  of  his 
men  in  the  center  division  of  the  army,  steadily  commenced 
the  ascent  of  the  mountain.  A  long  interval  ensued,  in  which 
nothing  was  heard  but  the  tramp  of  the  soldiers  and  a  few. 
words  of  almost  whispered  command,  as  they  scaled  the 
height;  and  it  was  not  until  they  had  nearly  reached  the 
summit  that  the  first  peal  of  battle  broke  upon  the  sleeping 
echoes  of  the  mountain. 

Campbell  here  deployed  into  line,  and  his  men  strode  briskly 
upwards  until  they  had  come  within  musketshot  of  the  British 


96      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

regulars,  whose  sharp  and  prolonged  volleys,  at  this  instant, 
suddenly  burst  forth  from  the  crest  of  the  hill.  Peal  after 
peal  rattled  along  the  mountain  side,  and  volumes  of  smoke, 
silvered  by  the  light  of  the  sun,  rolled  over  and  enveloped  the 
combatants. 

When  the  breeze  had  partially  swept  away  this  cloud,  and 
opened  glimpses  of  the  battle  behind  it,  the  troops  of  Camp 
bell  were  seen  recoiling  before  an  impetuous  charge  of  the 
bayonet,  in  which  Ferguson  himself  led  the  way.  A  sudden 
halt  by  the  retreating  Whigs,  and  a  stern  front  steadfastly 
opposed  to  the  foe,  checked  the  ardor  of  his  pursuit  at  an 
early  moment,  and,  in  turn,  he  was  discovered  retiring  towards 
his  original  ground,  hotly  followed  by  the  mountaineers.  Again 
the  same  vigorous  onset  from  the  royalists  was  repeated,  and 
again  the  shaken  bands  of  Campbell  rallied  and  turned  back 
the  rush  of  battle  towards  the  summit.  At  last,  panting  and 
spent  with  the  severe  encounter,  both  parties  stood  for  a  space 
eyeing  each  other  with  deadly  rage  and  waiting  only  to  gather 
breath  for  the  renewal  of  the  strife. 

At  this  juncture  the  distant  firing  heard  from  either  flank 
furnished  evidence  that  Sevier  and  Cleveland  had  both  come 
in  contact  with  the  enemy.  The  uprising  of  smoke  above  the 
trees  showed  the  seat  of  the  combat  to  be  below  the  summit 
on  the  mountain  sides  and  that  the  enemy  had  there  halfway 
met  his  foe,  whilst  the  shouts  of  the  soldiers,  alternating  be 
tween  the  parties  of  either  army,  no  less  distinctly  proclaimed 
the  fact  that  at  these  remote  points  the  field  was  disputed 
with  bloody  resolution  and  various  success. 

It  would  overtask  my  poor  faculty  of  description  to  give  my 
reader  even  a  faint  picture  of  this  rugged  battlefield.  During 
the  pause  of  the  combatants  of  the  center  Campbell  and  Shelby 
were  seen  riding  along  the  line  and  by  speech  and  gesture  en 
couraging  their  soldiers  to  still  more  determined  efforts.  Little 


JOHN   PENDLETON    KENNEDY  97 

need  was  there  for  exhortation ;  rage  seemed  to  have  refreshed 
the  strength  of  the  men,  who,  with  loud  and  fierce  huzzas, 
rushed  again  to  the  encounter.  They  were  met  with  a  defiance 
not  less  eager  than  their  own,  and  for  a  time  the  battle  was  again 
obscured  under  the  thick  haze  engendered  by  the  incessant 
discharges  of  firearms.  From  this  gloom  a  yell  of  triumph  was 
sometimes  heard,  as  momentary  success  inspired  those  who 
struggled  within ;  and  the  frequent  twinkle  of  polished  steel 
glimmering  through  the  murky  atmosphere,  and  the  occasional 
apparition  of  a  speeding  horseman,  seen  for  an  instant  as  he 
came  into  the  clear  light,  told  of  the  dreadful  earnestness  and 
zeal  with  which  the  unseen  hosts  had  now  joined  in  conflict. 
The  impression  of  this  contact  was  various.  Parts  of  each  force 
broke  before  their  antagonists,  and  in  those  spots  where  the 
array  of  the  fight  might  be  discerned  through  the  shade  of  the 
forest  or  the  smoke  of  battle,  both  royalists  and  Whigs  were 
found,  at  the  same  instant,  to  have  driven  back  detached  frag 
ments  of  their  opponents.  Foemen  were  mingled  hand  to  hand, 
through  and  among  their  adverse  ranks,  and  for  a  time  no 
conjecture  might  be  indulged  as  to  the  side  to  which  victory 
would  turn. 

The  flanking  detachments  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  the  same 
confusion  and  might  have  been  seen  retreating  and  advancing 
upon  the  rough  slopes  of  the  mountain  in  partisan  bodies, 
separated  from  their  lines,  thus  giving  to  the  scene  an  air 
of  bloody  riot,  more  resembling  the  sudden  insurrection  of 
mutineers  from  the  same  ranks  than  the  orderly  war  of  trained 
soldiers. 

Through  the  din  and  disorder  of  this  fight  it  is  fit  that  I 
should  take  time  to  mark  the  wanderings  of  Galbraith  Robin 
son,  whose  exploits  this  day  would  not  ill  deserve  the  pen  of 
Froissart.  The  doughty  sergeant  had,  for  a  time,  retained  his 
post  in  the  ranks  of  the  Amherst  Rangers,  and  with  them  had 


98      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

traveled  towards  the  mountain  top,  close  in  the  rear  of  Camp 
bell's  line.  But  when  the  troops  had  recoiled  before  the  fre 
quent  charges  of  the  royalists,  finding  his  station,  at  best,  but 
that  of  an  inactive  spectator,  he  made  no  scruple  of  deserting 
his  companions  and  trying  his  fortune  on  the  field  in  such  form 
of  adventure  as  best  suited  his  temper.  With  no  other  weapon 
than  his  customary  rifle,  he  stood  his  ground  when  others  re 
treated,  and  saw  the  ebb  and  flow  of  "  flight  and  chase  "  swell 
round  him,  according  to  the  varying  destiny  of  the  day.  In 
these  difficulties  it  was  his  good  fortune  to  escape  unhurt,  a 
piece  of  luck  that  may,  perhaps,  be  attributed  to  the  coolness 
with  which  he  either  galloped  over  an  adversary  or  around 
him,  as  the  emergency  rendered  most  advisable. 

In  the  midst  of  this  busy  occupation,  at  a  moment  when  one 
of  the  refluxes  of  battle  brought  him  almost  to  the  summit,  he 
descried  a  small  party  of  British  dragoons,  stationed  some  dis 
tance  in  the  rear  of  Ferguson's  line,  whose  detached  position 
seemed  to  infer  some  duty  unconnected  with  the  general  fight. 
In  the  midst  of  these  he  thought  he  recognized  the  figure  and 
dress  of  one  familiar  to  his  eye.  The  person  thus  singled  out 
by  the  sergeant's  glance  stood  bareheaded  upon  a  project 
ing  mass  of  rock,  apparently  looking  with  an  eager  gaze 
towards  the  distant  combat.  No  sooner  did  the  conjecture  that 
this  might  be  Arthur  Butler  flash  across  his  thought  than  he 
turned  his  steed  back  upon  the  path  by  which  he  had  ascended 
and  rode  with  haste  towards  the  Rangers. 

"  Stephen  Foster,"  he  said,  as  he  galloped  up  to  the  lieu 
tenant  and  drew  his  attention  by  a  tap  of  the  hand  upon  his 
shoulder,  "  I  have  business  for  you,  man  —  you  are  but  wasting 
your  time  here  —  pick  me  out  a  half  dozen  of  your  best  fellows 
and  bring  them  with  you  after  me.  Quick  —  Stephen —  quick ! " 

The  lieutenant  of  the  Rangers  collected  the  desired  party 
and  rode  after  the  sergeant,  who  now  conducted  this  handful 


JOHN   PENDLETON   KENNEDY  99 

of  men,  with  as  much  rapidity  as  the  broken  character  of  the 
ground  allowed,  by  a  circuit  for  considerable  distance  along 
the  right  side  of  the  mountain  until  they  reached  the  top.  The 
point  at  which  they  gained  the  summit  brought  them  between 
Ferguson's  line  and  the  dragoons,  who,  it  was  soon  perceived, 
were  the  party  charged  with  the  custody  of  Butler,  and  who 
had  been  thus  detached  in  the  rear  for  the  more  safe  guardian 
ship  of  the  prisoner.  Horseshoe's  maneuver  had  completely 
cut  them  off  from  their  friends  in  front,  and  they  had  no  re 
source  but  to  defend  themselves  against  the  threatened  assault 
or  fly  towards  the  parties  who  were  at  this  moment  engaged 
with  the  flanking  division  of  the  Whigs.  They  were  taken  by 
surprise,  and  Horseshoe,  perceiving  the  importance  of  an 
immediate  attack,  dashed  onwards  along  the  ridge  of  the  moun 
tain  with  precipitate  speed,  calling  out  to  his  companions  to 
follow.  In  a  moment  the  dragoons  were  engaged  in  a  desperate 
pell-mell  with  the  Rangers. 

"  Upon  them,  Stephen  !  Upon  them  bravely,  my  lads  !  Huzza. 
for  Major  Butler !  Fling  the  major  across  your  saddle  —  the 
first  that  reaches  him,"  shouted  the  sergeant,  with  a  voice  that 
was  heard  above  all  the  uproar  of  battle.  "  What  ho  —  James 
Curry ! "  he  cried  out,  as  soon  as  he  detected  the  presence 
of  his  old  acquaintance  in  this  throng;  "stand  your  ground, 
if  you  are  a  man ! " 

The  person  to  whom  this  challenge  was  directed  had  made 
an  effort  to  escape  towards  a  party  of  his  friends  whom  he  was 
about  summoning  to  his  aid,  and  in  the  attempt  had  already 
ridden  some  distance  into  the  wood,  whither  the  sergeant  had 
eagerly  followed  him. 

"  Ah,  ha,  old  Truepenny,  are  you  there  ? "  exclaimed  Curry, 
turning  short  upon  his  pursuer  and  affecting  to  laugh  as  if  in 
scorn.  "  Horseshoe  Robinson,  well  met ! "  he  added  sternly, 
"  I  have  not  seen  a  better  sight  to-day  than  that  fool's  head  of 


100     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

yours  upon  this  hill.  No,  not  even  when  just  now  Patrick 
Ferguson  sent  your  yelping  curs  back  to  hide  themselves  be 
hind  the  trees." 

"  Come  on,  James !  "  cried  Horseshoe,  "  I  have  no  time  to 
talk.  We  have  an  old  reckoning  to  settle,  which  perhaps  you 
mought  remember.  I  am  a  man  of  my  word,  and,  besides,  I 
have  set  my  eye  upon  Major  Butler,"  he  added,  with  a  tone 
and  look  that  were  both  impressed  with  the  fierce  passion  of 
the  scene  around  him. 

"  The  devil  blast  you  and  Major  Butler  to  boot !  "  exclaimed 
Curry,  roused  by  Horseshoe's  air  of  defiance.  "  To  it,  bully  ! 
It  shall  be  short  work  between  us,  and  bloody,"  he  shouted,  as 
he  discharged  a  pistol  shot  at  the  sergeant's  breast;  which 
failing  to  take  effect,  he  flung  the  weapon  upon  the  ground, 
brandished  his  sword,  and  spurred  immediately  against  his 
challenger.  The  sweep  of  the  broadsword  fell  upon  the  barrel 
of  Horseshoe's  uplifted  rifle,  and  in  the  next  instant  the  broad 
hand  of  our  lusty  yeoman  had  seized  the  trooper  by  the  collar 
and  dragged  him  from  his  horse.  The  two  soldiers  came  to  the 
ground,  locked  in  a  mutual  embrace,  and  for  a  brief  moment 
a  desperate  trial  of  strength  was  exhibited  in  the  effort  to  gain 
their  feet. 

"  I  have  you  there,"  said  Robinson,  as  at  length,  with  a 
flushed  cheek,  quick  breath,  and  bloodshot  eye,  he  rose  from 
the  earth  and  shook  the  dragoon  from  him,  who  fell  backwards 
on  his  knee.  "  Curse  you,  James  Curry,  for  a  fool  and  villain ! 
You  almost  drive  me,  against  my  will,  to  the  taking  of  your  life. 
I  don't  want  your  blood.  You  are  beaten,  man,  and  must  say 
so.  I  grant  you  quarter  upon  condition  — 

"  Look  to  yourself !  I  ask  no  terms  from  you,"  interrupted 
Curry,  as  suddenly  springing  to  his  feet,  he  now  made  a  second 
pass,  which  was  swung  with  such  unexpected  vigor  at  the  head 
of  his  adversary  that  Horseshoe  had  barely  time  to  catch  the 


JOHN   PENDLETON    KENNEDY  rci 

blow,  as  before,  upon  his  rifle.  The  broadsword  was  broken 
by  the  stroke,  and  one  of  the  fragments  of  the  blade  struck  the 
sergeant  upon  the  forehead,  inflicting  a  wound  that  covered  his 
face  with  blood.  Horseshoe  reeled  a  step  or  two  from  his 
ground  and  clubbing  the  rifle,  as  it  is  called,  by  grasping  the 
barrel  towards  the  muzzle,  he  paused  but  an  instant  to  dash 
the  blood  from  his  brow  \vith  his  hand  and  then  with  one  lusty 
sweep,  to  which  his  sudden  anger  gave  both  precision  and 
energy,  he  brought  the  piece  full  upon  the  head  of  his  foe  with 
such  fatal  effect  as  to  bury  the  lock  in  the  trooper's  brain, 
\vhilst  the  stock  was  shattered  into  splinters.  Curry,  almost 
without  a  groan,  fell  dead  across  a  ledge  of  rock  at  his  feet. 

"  The  grudge  is  done  and  the  fool  has  met  his  desarvings," 
was  Horseshoe's  brief  comment  upon  the  event,  as  he  gazed 
sullenly,  for  an  instant,  upon  the  dead  body.  He  had  no  time 
to  tarry.  The  rest  of  his  party  were  still  engaged  with  the 
troopers  of  the  guard,  who  now  struggled  to  preserve  the 
custody  of  their  prisoner.  The  bridle  rein  of  Captain  Peter  had 
been  caught  by  one  of  the  Rangers,  and  the  good  steed  was 
now  quickly  delivered  up  to  his  master,  who,  flinging  himself 
again  into  his  saddle,  rushed  into  the  throng  of  combatants. 
The  few  dragoons,  dispirited  by  the  loss  of  their  leader  and 
stricken  with  panic  at  this  strenuous  onset,  turned  to  flight, 
leaving  Butler  in  the  midst  of  his  friends. 

"  God  bless  you,  major !  "  shouted  Robinson,  as  he  rode  up 
to  his  old  comrade,  who,  unarmed,  had  looked  upon  the 
struggle  with  an  interest  corresponding  to  the  stake  he  had  in 
the  event.  "  Up,  man  —  here,  spring  across  the  pommel.  Now, 
boys,  down  the  mountain,  for  your  lives !  Huzza,  huzza !  we 
have  won  him  back  ! "  he  exclaimed,  as,  seizing  Butler's  arm, 
he  lifted  him  upon  the  neck  of  Captain  Peter  and  bounded 
away  at  full  speed  towards  the  base  of  the  mountain,  followed, 
by  Foster  and  his  party. 


102     SOUTHERN  ;LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

The  reader  may  imagine  the  poignancy  of  Mildred's  emotions 
as  she  sat  beside  Allen  Musgrove  and  his  daughter  on  the 
knoll  and  watched  the  busy  and  stirring  scene  before  her.  The 
center  division  of  the  assailing  army  was  immediately  in  her 
view  on  the  opposite  face  of  the  mountain,  and  no  incident  of 
the  battle  in  this  quarter  escaped  her  notice.  She  could  dis 
tinctly  perceive  the  motions  of  the  Amherst  Rangers,  to  whom 
she  turned  her  eyes  with  a  frequent  and  eager  glance  as  the 
corps  with  which  her  brother  Henry  was  associated,  and  when, 
the  various  fortune  of  the  fight  disclosed  to  her  the  occasional 
retreat  of  her  friends  before  the  vigorous  sallies  of  the  enemy 
or  brought  to  her  ear  the  renewed  and  angry  volleys  of  mus 
ketry,  she  clenched  Mary  Musgrove's  arm  with  a  nervous 
grasp  and  uttered  short  and  anxious  ejaculations  that  showed 
the  terror  of  her  mind. 

"  I  see  Mister  Henry  yet,"  said  Mary,  as  Campbell's  troops 
rallied  from  the  last  shock,  and  again  moved  towards  the 
summit.  "I  see  him  plainly,  ma'am  —  for  I  know  his  green 
dress  and  caught  the  glitter  of  his  brass  bugle  in  the  sun.  And 
there  now  —  all  is  smoke  again.  Mercy,  how  stubborn  are 
these  men !  And  there  is  Mister  Henry  once  more  —  near 
the  top.  He  is  safe,  ma'am." 

"  How  earnestly,"  said  Mildred,  unconsciously  speaking  aloud 
as  she  surveyed  the  scene,  "  Oh.  how  earnestly  do  I  wish  this 
battle  was  done !  I  would  rather,  Mr.  Musgrove,  be  in  the 
midst  of  yonder  crowd  of  angry  men,  could  I  but  have  their 
recklessness,  than  here  in  safety  to  be  tortured  with  my  present 
feelings." 

"  In  God  is  our  trust,  madam,"  replied  the  miller.  "  His  arm 
is  abroad  over  the  dangerous  paths,  for  a  shield  and  buckler 
to  them  that  put  their  trust  in  him.  Ha !  there  is  Ferguson's 
white  horse  rushing,  with  a  dangling  rein  and  empty  saddle, 
down  the  mountain  through  Campbell's  ranks;  the  rider  has 


JOHN   PENDLETON   KENNEDY  103 

fallen,  and  there,  madam  —  there,  look  on  it !  —  is  a  white  flag 
waving  in  the  hands  of  a  British  officer.  The  fight  is  done. 
Hark,  our  friends  are  cheering  with  a  loud  voice ! " 

"  Thank  Heaven  —  thank  Heaven  !  "  exclaimed  Mildred,  as 
she  sprang  upon  her  feet.  "  It  is  even  so !  " 

The  loud  huzzas  of  the  troops  rose  upon  the  air ;  the  firing 
ceased ;  the  flag  of  truce  fluttered  in  the  breeze ;  and  the  con 
federated  bands  of  the  mountaineers,  from  every  quarter  of  the 
late  battle,  were  seen  hurrying  towards  the  crest  of  the  moun 
tain  and  mingling  amongst  the  ranks  of  the  conquered  foe. 
Again  and  again  the  clamorous  cheering  of  the  victors  broke 
forth  from  the  mountain  top  and  echoed  along  the  neighboring 
valleys. 

During  this  wild  clamor  and  busy  movement  a  party  of 
horsemen  were  seen,  through  the  occasional  intervals  of  the 
low  wood  that  skirted  the  valley  on  the  right,  hastening  from 
the  field  with  an  eager  swiftness  towards  the  spot  where 
Mildred  and  her  companions  were  stationed. 

As  they  swept  along  the  base  of  the  mountain  and  approached 
the  knoll  they  were  lost  to  view  behind  the  projecting  angles  of 
the  low  hills  that  formed  the  ravine,  through  which,  my  reader 
is  aware,  the  road  held  its  course.  When  they  reappeared  it 
was  in  ascending  the  abrupt  acclivity  of  the  knoll  and  within 
fifty  paces  of  the  party  on  the  top  of  it. 

It  was  now  apparent  that  the  approaching  party  consisted 
of  Stephen  Foster  and  three  or  four  of  the  Rangers  led  by 
Horseshoe  Robinson,  with  Butler  still  seated  before  him  as 
when  the  sergeant  first  caught  him  up  in  the  fight.  These 
were  at  the  same  moment  overtaken  by  Henry  Lindsay,  who 
had  turned  back  from  the  mountain  at  the  first  announcement 
of  victory  to  bring  the  tidings  to  his  sister. 

Mildred's  cheek  grew  deadly  pale  and  her  frame  shook  as 
the  cavalcade  rushed  into  her  presence. 


104     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"  There  —  take  him !  "  cried  Horseshoe,  with  an  effort  to 
laugh,  but  which  seemed  to  be  half  converted  into  a  quaver  by 
the  agitation  of  his  feelings,  as,  springing  to  the  ground,  he 
swung  Butler  from  the  horse,  with  scarce  more  effort  than 
he  would  have  used  in  handling  a  child  ;  "  take  him,  ma'am.  I 
promised  myself  to-day  that  I'd  give  him  to  you.  And  now 
you  've  got  him.  That 's  a  good  reward  for  all  your  troubles.  — 
God  bless  us  —  but  I'm  happy  to-day." 

"  MY  HUSBAND  !  —  MY  DEAR  HUSBAND  !"  were  the  only  artic 
ulate  words  that  escaped  Mildred's  lips,  as  she  fell  senseless 
into  the  arms  of  Arthur  Butler. 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 

[William  Gilmore  Simms  was  born  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
in  1 806.  He  received  but  a  limited  education,  and  at  the  age  of  twelve 
became  apprenticed  to  a  druggist.  But  as  this  occupation  did  not 
appeal  to  him,  he  began  at  eighteen  the  study  of  law.  This  profes 
sion  he  abandoned  in  a  short  time  to  become  editor  of  a  newly  estab 
lished  literary  magazine,  and  from  this  time  on  he  devoted  his  entire 
time  to  literary  work.  He  was  a  most  prolific  writer  and  not  only 
produced  numerous  volumes  of  poetry  and  fiction  but  edited  one 
short-lived  periodical  after  another  and  contributed  to  various  others. 
The  war  made  the  close  of  his  life  a  sad  one.  His  home  was  partly 
burned  in  1 862,  and  in  1 865  it,  together  with  his  fine  library,  was 
entirely  destroyed.  During  the  years  of  the  war  his  wife  and  several 
of  his  children  died.  He  found  also  that  the  public  was  beginning  to 
lose  its  relish  for  the  type  of  story  he  wrote.  The  words  of  the 
epitaph  he  left  behind  at  his  death  in  Charleston  in  1870  suggest  the 
essentially  brave  spirit  of  the  man,  "  Here  lies  one  who,  after  a 
reasonably  long  life,  distinguished  chiefly  by  unceasing  labors,  has 
left  all  his  better  work  undone." 

To  attempt  an  enumeration  of  Simms's  many  volumes  is  impos 
sible,  the  total  being,  according  to  one  count,  above  eighty.  Suffice 
it  to  say  that  besides  fiction  he  wrote  numerous  volumes  of  dramas, 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS 


IO 


criticism,  biography,  history,  and  other  forms  of  writing.  The  re 
sult  of  this  literary  endeavor  is  summed  up  in  the  words  of  Professor 
W.  P.  Trent:  "Although  he  left  behind  little  that  is  permanent,  he 
did  write  half  a  dozen  or  more  romances  of  colonial  and  Revolu 
tionary  Carolina  that  are  interesting  and  valuble  for  the  light  they 
throw  upon  an  important  period  of  Southern  history."] 


SELECTION  FROM  "THE  YEMASSEE " 
THE  ATTACK  ON  THE  BLOCK  HOUSE 

[The  incidents  are  supposed  to  take  place  in  the  region  of 
Beaufort,  South  Carolina,  in  1715,  when  the  Yemassee  Indians, 
who  had  been  friendly 
to  the  English  of  South 
Carolina,  joined  with  the 
Spaniards  in  making  war 
upon  them. 

The  story  opens  with 
Captain  Gabriel  Harrison 
(who  is  really  Governor 
Craven  of  South  Carolina 
in  disguise)  learning  of 
the  plans  of  the  Indians 
and  endeavoring  to  succor 
the  white  people  from  the 
impending  general  mas 
sacre.  Captain  Harrison 
is  particularly  interested 
in  saving  his  sweetheart,  Bess  Matthews,  and  her  father,  a 
Puritan  preacher.  He  urges  them  either  to  go  to  Charleston 
or  to  go  to  the  neighboring  blockhouse  for  safety,  but  the 
preacher  declines  to  do  so,  insisting  that  the  Indians  intend 
no  mischief.  Captain  Harrison  urges  the  other  frontiersmen 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 


106     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

to  preparations,  and  the  old  blockhouse  is  repaired  and  made 
ready  for  a  siege. 

When  the  English  try  to  buy  additional  land  from  the  Indians, 
Sanutee,  one  of  the  older  chiefs,  and  a  few  others  refuse  to  as 
sent  to  the  sale,  and  succeed  in  having  the  chiefs  who  did  con 
sent  condemned  to  become  outcasts.  Among  these  is  Occon- 
estoga,  a  young  chief  and  the  son  of  Sanutee,  who,  with  the 
aid  of  his  mother,  Matiwan,  makes  his  escape  to  the  whites. 
Made  reckless  by  drink,  Occonestoga  consents  to  return  to  his 
people  in  order  to  spy  upon  them  for  the  English.  He  is  caught 
and  condemned  to  an  accursed  death.  In  a  thrilling  scene  his 
mother  kills  him  in  order  that  he  may  not  die  ignominiously. 

As  Occonestoga  had  failed  to  return,  Captain  Harrison  goes 
himself  to  spy  upon  the  Indians  and  is  captured.  Matiwan,  the 
mother  of  Occonestoga,  aids  him  to  escape  from  prison  because 
he  had  shown  kindness  to  her  son.  Shortly  after  this  the 
Indians,  aided  by  the  Spaniards  and  certain  pirates,  begin  war 
fare  on  the  whites  and  bring  torture  and  devastation  upon  such 
of  the  settlements  as  had  not  heeded  Captain  Harrison's  warn 
ing.  Bess  Matthews  and  her  father  are  saved  from  the  Indians 
by  Chorley,  a  Spaniard,  who  has  fallen  in  love  with  her,  though 
he  virtually  holds  them  as  his  prisoners.  The  Indians  shortly 
afterwards  concentrated  their  forces  on  the  blockhouse,  the 
attack  on  which  is  described  in  the  selection  that  follows.] 

The  inmates  of  the  Block  House,  as  we  remember,  had  been 
warned  by  Hector  of  the  probable  approach  of  danger,  and 
preparation  was  the  word  in  consequence.  But  what  was  the 
preparation  meant  ?  Under  no  distinct  command,  everyone 
had  his  own  favorite  idea  of  defense,  and  all  was  confusion  in 
their  councils.  The  absence  of  Harrison,  to  whose  direction  all 
parties  would  most  willingly  have  turned  their  ears,  was  now  of 
the  most  injurious  tendency,  as  it  left  them  unprovided  with  any 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS  IO/ 

head,  and  just  at  the  moment  when  a  high  degree  of  excitement 
prevailed  against  the  choice  of  any  substitute.  Great  bustle  and 
little  execution  took  the  place  of  good  order,  calm  opinion, 
deliberate  and  decided  action.  The  men  were  ready  enough  to 
fight,  and  this  readiness  was  an  evil  of  itself,  circumstanced  as 
they  were.  To  fight  would  have  been  madness  then  ;  to  protract 
the  issue  and  gain  time  was  the  object,  and  few  among  the 
defenders  of  the  fortress  at  that  moment  were  sufficiently 
collected  to  see  this  truth.  In  reason,  there  was  really  but  a 
single  spirit  in  the  Block  House  sufficiently  deliberate  for  the 
occasion.  That  spirit  was  a  woman's  —  the  wife  of  Granger. 
She  had  been  the  child  of  poverty  and  privation;  the  severe 
school  of  that  best  tutor,  necessity,  had  made  her  equable  in 
mind  and  intrepid  in  spirit.  She  had  looked  suffering  so  long 
in  the  face  that  she  now  regarded  it  without  a  tear.  Her  parents 
had  never  been  known  to  her,  and  the  most  trying  difficulties 
clung  to  her  from  infancy  up  to  womanhood.  So  exercised,  her 
mind  grew  strong  in  proportion  to  its  trials,  and  she  had  learned 
in  the  end  to  regard  them  with  a  degree  of  fearlessness  far 
beyond  the  capacities  of  any  well-bred  heir  of  prosperity  and 
favoring  fortune.  The  same  trials  attended  her  after  marriage, 
since  the  pursuits  of  her  husband  carried  her  into  dangers 
to  which  even  he  could  oppose  far  less  ability  than  his  wife. 
Her  genius  soared  infinitely  beyond  his  own,  and  to  her  teachings 
was  he  indebted  for  many  of  those  successes  which  brought  him 
wealth  in  after  years.  She  counseled  his  enterprises,  prompted 
or  persuaded  his  proceedings,  managed  for  him  wisely  and 
economically,  in  all  respects  proved  herself  unselfish ;  and,  if 
she  did  not  at  any  time  appear  above  the  way  of  life  they  had 
adopted,  she  took  care  to  maintain  both  of  them  from  falling 
beneath  it  —  a  result  too  often  following  the  exclusive  pursuit 
of  gain.  Her  experience  throughout  life,  hitherto,  served  her 
admirably  now,  when  all  was  confusion  among  the  councils  of 


108     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

the  men.  She  descended  to  the  court  below,  where  they  made 
a  show  of  deliberation,  and,  in  her  own  manner,  with  a  just 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  proceeded  to  give  her  aid  in  their 
general  progress.  Knowing  that  any  direct  suggestion  from  a 
woman,  and  under  circumstances  of  strife  and  trial,  would 
necessarily  offend  the  amour  propre  of  the  nobler  animal  and 
provoke  his  derision,  she  pursued  a  sort  of  management  which 
an  experienced  woman  is  usually  found  to  employ  as  a  kind  of 
familiar  —  a  wily  little  demon,  that  goes  unseen  at  her  bidding 
and  does  her  business,  like  another  Ariel,  the  world  all  the  while 
knowing  nothing  about  it.  Calling  out  from  the  crowd  one  of 
those  whom  she  knew  to  be  not  only  the  most  collected,  but 
the  one  least  annoyed  by  any  unnecessary  self-esteem,  she  was 
in  a  moment  joined  by  Wat  Gray  son,  and  leading  him  aside, 
she  proceeded  to  suggest  various  measures  of  preparation  and 
defense,  certainly  the  most  prudent  that  had  yet  been  made. 
This  she  did  with  so  much  unobtrusive  modesty  that  the  worthy 
woodman  took  it  for  granted  all  the  while  that  the  ideas 
were  properly  his  own.  She  concluded  with  insisting  upon 
his  taking  the  command. 

"  But  Nichols  will  have  it  all  to  himself.  That 's  one  of  our 
difficulties  now." 

"  What  of  that  ?  You  may  easily  manage  him,  Master 
Gray  son." 

"  How  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  greater  number  of  the  men  here  are  of  the  '  Green 
Jackets '  ? " 

"Yes  —  " 

"  And  you  are  their  lieutenant  —  next  in  command  to  Captain 
Harrison,  and  their  first  officer  in  his  absence  ? " 

"  That 's  true." 

"  Command  them  as  your  troop  exclusively  and  don't  mind 
the  rest." 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS  109 

"  But  they  will  be  offended." 

"And  if  they  are,  Master  Grayson,  is  this  a  time  to  heed 
their  folly  when  the  enemy  's  upon  us  ?  Let  them.  You  do 
with  your  troop  without  heed  to  them,  and  they  will  fall  into 
your  ranks  —  they  will  work  with  you  when  the  time  comes." 

"  You  are  right,"  was  the  reply ;  and  immediately  going 
forward,  with  a  voice  of  authority,  Grayson,  calling  only  the 
"  Green  Jackets "  around  him,  proceeded  to  organize  them 
and  put  himself  in  command,  as  first  lieutenant  of  the  only 
volunteer  corps  which  the  parish  knew.  The  corps  received  the 
annunciation  with  a  shout,  and  the  majority  readily  recognized 
him.  Nichols  alone  grumbled  a  little,  but  the  minority  was  too 
small  to  offer  any  obstruction  to  Grayson's  authority,  so  that  he 
soon  submitted  with  the  rest.  The  command,  all  circumstances 
considered,  was  not  improperly  given.  Grayson,  though  not 
overwise,  was  decisive  in  action ;  and,  in  matters  of  strife, 
wisdom  itself  must  be  subservient  to  resolution.  Resolution  in 
trial  is  wisdom.  The  new  commander  numbered  his  force, 
placed  the  feeble  and  the  young  in  the  least  trying  situations, 
assigned  different  bodies  to  different  stations,  and  sent  the 
women  and  children  into  the  upper  and  most  sheltered 
apartment.  In  a  few  moments  things  were  arranged  for  the 
approaching  conflict  with  tolerable  precision. 

The  force  thus  commanded  by  Grayson  was  small  enough ; 
the  whole  number  of  men  in  the  Block  House  not  exceeding 
twenty-five.  The  women  and  children  within  its  shelter  were 
probably  twice  that  number.  The  population  had  been  assembled 
in  great  part  from  the  entire  extent  of  country  lying  between 
the  Block  House  and  the  Indian  settlements.  From  the  Block 
House  downward  to  Port  Royal  Island  there  had  been  no 
gathering  to  this  point,  the  settlers  in  that  section,  necessarily, 
in  the  event  of  a  like  difficulty,  seeking  a  retreat  to  the  fort  on 
the  island,  which  had  its  garrison  already,  and  was  more  secure, 


110     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

and  in  another  respect  much  more  safe,  as  it  lay  more  contiguous 
to  the  sea.  The  greater  portion  of  the  country  immediately 
endangered  from  the  Yemassees  had  been  duly  warned,  and 
none  but  the  slow,  the  indifferent,  and  the  obstinate  but  had 
taken  sufficient  heed  of  the  many  warnings  given  them  and  put 
themselves  in  safety.  Numbers,  however,  coming  under  one 
or  other  of  these  classes  had  fallen  victims  to  their  folly  or 
temerity  in  the  sudden  onslaught  which  followed  the  first 
movement  of  the  savages  among  them,  who,  scattering  them 
selves  over  the  country,  had  made  their  attack  so  nearly  at 
the  same  time  as  to  defeat  anything  like  unity  of  action  in 
the  resistance  which  might  have  been  offered  them. 

Grayson's  first  care  in  his  new  command  was  to  get  the 
women  and  children  fairly  out  of  the  way.  The  close  upper 
apartment  of  the  Block  House  had  been  especially  assigned 
them,  and  there  they  had  assembled  generally.  But  some  few  of 
the  old  ladies  were  not  to  be  shut  up,  and  his  own  good  Puritan 
mother  gave  the  busy  commandant  no  little  trouble.  She  went 
to  and  fro,  interfering  in  this,  preventing  that,  and  altogether 
annoying  the 'men  to  such  a  degree  that  it  became  absolutely 
necessary  to  put  on  a  show  of  sternness  which,  in  a  moment  of 
less  real  danger  and  anxiety,  would  have  been  studiously  for 
borne.  With  some  difficulty,  and  the  assistance  of  Granger's 
wife,  he  at  length  got  her  out  of  the  way,  and,  to  the  great 
satisfaction  of  all  parties,  she  worried  herself  to  sleep  in  the 
midst  of  a  Psalm,  which  she  crooned  over  to  the  dreariest  tune 
in  her  whole  collection.  Sleep  had  also  fortunately  seized  upon 
tfte  children  generally;  and  but  few  in  the  room  assigned  to  the 
women  were  able  to  withstand  the  approaches  of  that  subtle 
magician.  The  wife  of  the  trader,  almost  alone,  continued 
watchful  —  thoughtful  in  emergency,  and  with  a  ready  degree  of 
common  sense  to  contend  with  trial  and  to  prepare  against  it. 
The  confused  cluster  of  sleeping  forms,  in  all  positions  and  of 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS  III 

all  sorts  and  sizes,  that  hour,  in  the  apartment  so  occupied,  was 
grotesque  enough.  One  figure  alone,  sitting  in  the  midst  and 
musing  with  a  concentrated  mind,  gave  dignity  to  the  ludicrous 
grouping  —  the  majestic  figure  of  Mary  Granger,  her  dark 
eye  fixed  upon  the  silent  and  sleeping  collection  in  doubt  and 
pit\-,  her  black  hair  bound  closely  upon  her  head,  and  her 
broad  forehead  seeming  to  enlarge  and  grow  with  the  busy 
thought  at  work  within  it.  Her  hand,  too  —  strange  association 
—  rested  upon  a  hatchet.  .  .  . 

The  watchers  of  the  fortress,  from  their  several  loopholes, 
looked  forth,  east  and  west,  yet  saw  no  enemy.  All  was  soft  in 
the  picture,  all  was  silent  in  the  deep  repose  of  the  forest.  The 
night  was  clear  and  lovely,  and  the  vague  and  dim  beauty  with 
which,  in  the  imperfect  moonlight,  the  foliage  of  the  woods 
spread  away  in  distant  shadows  or  clung  and  clustered  together 
as  in  groups,  shrinking  for  concealment  from  her  glances, 
touched  the  spirits  even  of  those  rude  foresters.  With  them 
the  poetry  of  the  natural  world  is  a  matter  of  feeling ;  with  the 
refined  it  is  an  instrument  of  art.  Hence  it  is,  indeed,  that  the 
poetry  of  the  early  ages  speaks  in  the  simplest  language,  while 
that  of  civilization,  becoming  only  the  agent  for  artificial  en 
joyment,  is  ornate  in  its  dress  and  complex  in  its  form  and 
structure. 

The  night  wore  on,  still  calm  and  serene  in  all  its  aspects 
about  the  Block  House.  Far  away  in  the  distance,  like  glimpses 
of  a  spirit,  little  sweeps  of  the  river  in  its  crooked  windings 
flashed  upon  the  eye,  streaking  with  a  sweet  relief  the  somber 
foliage  of  the  swampy  forest  through  which  it  stole.  A^single 
note  —  the  melancholy  murmur  of  the  chuck-will's-widow, 
the  Carolina  whippoorwill  —  broke  fitfully  upon  the  silence,  to 
which  it  gave  an  added  solemnity.  That  single  note  indicated 
to  the  keepers  of  the  fortress  a  watchfulness  corresponding  with 
their  own,  of  another  living  creature.  Whether  it  were  human 


112     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

or  not  —  whether  it  were  the  deceptive  lure  and  signal  of  the 
savage  or,  in  reality,  the  complaining  cry  of  the  solitary  and  sad 
night  bird  which  it  so  resembled,  was,  however,  matter  of  nice 
question  with  those  who  listened  to  the  strain. 

"They  are  there  —  they  are  there,  hidden  in  that  wood," 
cried  Grayson ;  "  I  '11  swear  it.  I  've  heard  them  quite  too 
often  not  to  know  their  cunning  now.  Hector  was  right  after 
all,  boys." 

"  What,  where  ?  "  asked  Nichols. 

"There,  in  the  bush  to  the  left  of  the  blasted  oak  —  now 
down  to  the  bluff  —  and  now  by  the  bay  on  the  right.  They 
are  all  round  us." 

"  By  what  do  you  know,  Wat  ?  " 

"  The  whippoorwill  —  that  is  their  cry  —  their  signal." 

"  It  is  the  whippoorwill,"  said  Nichols,  —  "  there  is  but  one 
of  them ;  you  never  hear  more  than  one  at  a  time." 

"  Pshaw !  "  responded  Grayson,  —  "  you  may  hear  half  a 
dozen  at  a  time,  as  I  have  done  a  thousand  times.  But  that  is 
from  no  throat  of  bird.  It  is  the  Indian.  There  is  but  a  single 
note,  you  perceive,  and  it  rises  from  three  different  quarters. 
Now  it  is  to  the  Chief's  Bluff  —  and  now  —  it  comes  immedi 
ately  from  the  old  grove  of  scrubby  oak.  A  few  shot  there 
would  get  an  answer." 

"  Good  !  that  is  just  my  thought  —  let  us  give  them  a  broad 
side  and  disperse  the  scoundrels,"  cried  Nichols. 

"  Not  so  fast,  Nichols  —  you  swallow  your  enemy  without 
asking  leave  of  his  teeth.  Have  you  inquired  first  whether  we 
have  powder  and  shot  to  throw  away  upon  bushes  that  may  be 
emptyT"  now  exclaimed  the  blacksmith,  joining  in  the  question. 

"  A  prudent  thought,  that,  Grimstead,"  said  Grayson ;  "  we 
have  no  ammunition  to  spare  in  that  way.  But  I  have  a  notion 
that  may  prove  of  profit.  Where  is  the  captain's  straw  man  — 
here,  Granger,  bring  out  Dugdale's  trainer." 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS  113 

p 

The  stuffed  figure  .  .  .  was  brought  forward,  the  window 
looking  in  the  direction  of  the  grove  supposed  to  shelter  the 
savages  was  thrown  open,  and  the  perfectly  indifferent  head 
of  the  automaton  thrust  incontinently  through  the  opening. 
The  ruse  was  completely  successful.  The  foe  could  not  well 
resist  this  temptation,  and  a  flight  of  arrows,  penetrating  the 
figure  in  every  portion  of  its  breast  and  face,  attested  the 
presence  of  the  enemy  and  the  truth  of  his  aim.  A  wild  and 
shuddering  cry  rang  through  the  forest  at  the  same  instant  — 
that  cry,  well  known  as  the  fearful  war  whoop,  the  sound  of 
which  made  the  marrow  curdle  in  the  bones  of  the  frontier 
settler  and  prompted  the  mother,  with  a  nameless  terror,  to  hug 
closer  to  her  bosom  the  form  of  her  unconscious  infant.  It  was 
at  once  answered  from  side  to  side,  wherever  their  several 
parties  had  been  stationed,  and  it  struck  terror  even  into  the  shel 
tered  garrison  which  heard  it  —  such  terror  as  the  traveler  feels 
by  night,  when  the  shrill  rattle  of  the  lurking  serpent,  with  that 
ubiquity  of  sound  which  is  one  of  its  fearful  features,  vibrates 
all  around  him,  leaving  him  at  a  loss  to  say  in  what  quarter  his 
enemy  lies  in  waiting,  and  teaching  him  to  dread  that  the  very 
next  step  which  he  takes  may  place  him  within  the  coil  of  death. 

"  Ay,  there  they  are,  sure  enough  —  fifty  of  them  at  least, 
and  we  shall  have  them  upon  us  after  this  monstrous  quick,  in 
some  way  or  other,"  was  the  speech  of  Gray  son,  while  a  brief 
silence  through  all  the  party  marked  the  deep  influence  upon 
them  of  the  summons  which  they  had  heard. 

"True  —  and  we  must  be  up  and  doing,"  said  the  smith; 
"  we  can  now  give  them  a  shot,  [Walter]  Grayson,  for  they  will 
dance  out  from  the  cover  now,  thinking  they  have  killed  one 
of  us.  The  savages  —  they  have  thrown  away  some  of  their 
powder  at  least."  As  Grimstead  spoke,  he  drew  three  arrows 
with  no  small  difficulty  from  the  bosom  of  the  figure  in  which 
they  were  buried. 


114     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"  Better  there  than  in  our  ribs.  But  you  are  right.  Stand 
back  for  a  moment  and  let  me  have  that  loop  —  I  shall  waste 
no  shot.  Ha !  I  see  —  there  is  one  —  I  see  his  arm  and  the 
edge  of  his  hatchet  —  it  rests  upon  his  shoulder,  I  reckon,  but 
that  is  concealed  by  the  brush.  He  moves  —  he  comes  out, 
and  slaps  his  hands  against  his  thigh.  The  red  devil,  but  he 
shall  have  it.  Get  ready  now,  each  at  his  loop,  for  if  I  hurt 
him  they  will  rush  out  in  fury." 

The  sharp  click  of  the  cock  followed  the  words  of  Grayson, 
who  was  an  able  shot,  and  the  next  moment  the  full  report 
came  burdened  with  a  dozen  echoes  from  the  crowding  woods 
around.  A  cry  of  pain — then  a  shout  of  fury  and  the  reiterated 
whoop  followed ;  and  as  one  of  their  leaders  reeled  and  sank 
under  the  unerring  bullet,  the  band  in  that  station,  as  had  been 
predicted  by  Grayson,  rushed  forth  to  where  he  stood,  brand 
ishing  their  weapons  with  ineffectual  fury  and  lifting  their 
wounded  comrade,  as  is  their  general  custom,  to  bear  him  to  a 
place  of  concealment  and  preserve  him  from  being  scalped, 
by  secret  burial  in  the  event  of  his  being  dead.  They  paid  for 
their  temerity.  Following  the  direction  of  their  leader,  whose 
decision  necessarily  commanded  their  obedience,  the  Carolinians 
took  quite  as  much  advantage  of  the  exposure  of  their  enemies 
as  the  number  of  the  loopholes  in  that  quarter  of  the  building 
would  admit.  Five  muskets  told  among  the  group,  and  a 
reiterated  shout  of  fury  indicated  the  good  service  which  the 
discharge  had  done  and  taught  the  savages  a  lesson  of  prudence 
which,  in  the  present  instance,  they  had  been  too  ready  to  dis 
regard.  They  sank  back  into  cover,  taking  care  however  to 
remove  their  hurt  companions,  so  that,  save  by  the  peculiar  cry 
which  marks  a  loss  among  them,  the  garrison  were  unable 
to  determine  what  had  been  the  success  of  their  discharges. 
Having  driven  them  back  into  the  brush,  however,  without 
loss  to  themselves,  the  latter  were  now  sanguine,  where,  only 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS  115 

a  moment  before,  their  confined  and  cheerless  position  had 
taught  them  a  feeling  of  despondency  not  calculated  to  improve 
the  comforts  of  their  case. 

The  Indians  had  made  their  arrangements,  on  the  other 
hand,  with  no  little  precaution.  But  they  had  been  deceived 
and  disappointed.  Their  scouts,  who  had  previously  inspected 
the  fortress,  had  given  a  very  different  account  of  the  defenses 
and  the  watchfulness  of  their  garrison,  to  what  was  actually  the 
fact  upon  their  appearance.  The  scouts,  however,  had  spoken 
truth,  and  but  for  the  discovery  made  by  Hector,  the  proba 
bility  is  that  the  Block  House  would  have  been  surprised  with 
little  or  no  difficulty.  Accustomed  to  obey  Harrison  as  their 
only  leader,  the  foresters  present  never  dreamed  of  preparation 
for  conflict  unless  under  his  guidance.  The  timely  advice  of 
the  trader's  wife,  and  the  confident  assumption  of  command  on 
the  part  of  Walter  Grayson,  completed  their  securities.  But 
for  this,  a  confusion  of  counsels,  not  less  than  of  tongues, 
would  have  neutralized  all  action  and  left  them  an  easy  prey, 
without  head  or  direction,  to  the  knives  of  their  insidious 
enemy.  Calculating  upon  surprise  and  cunning  as  the  only 
means  by  which  they  could  hope  to  balance  the  numerous 
advantages  possessed  by  European  warfare  over  their  own,  the 
Indians  had  relied  rather  more  on  the  suddenness  of  their 
onset  and  the  craft  peculiar  to  their  education  than  on  the 
force  of  their  valor.  They  felt  themselves  baffled,  therefore,  in 
their  main  hope,  by  the  sleepless  caution  of  the  garrison  and 
now  prepared  themselves  for  other  means. 

They  made  their  disposition  of  force  with  no  little  judg 
ment.  Small  bodies,  at  equal  distances,  under  cover,  had  been 
stationed  all  about  the  fortress.  With  the  notes  of  the  whip- 
poorwill  they  had  carried  on  their  signals  and  indicated  the 
several  stages  of  their  preparation,  while,  in  addition  to  this, 
another  band,  —  a  sort  of  forlorn  hope,  consisting  of  the  more 


Il6     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

desperate,  who  had  various  motives  for  signalizing  their  valor, 
—  creeping  singly  from  cover  to  cover,  now  reposing  in  the 
shadow  of  a  log  along  the  ground,  now  half  buried  in  a  cluster 
ing  bush,  made  their  way  at  length  so  closely  under  the  walls 
of  the  log  house  as  to  be  completely  concealed  from  the  garri 
son,  which,  unless  by  the  window,  had  no  mode  of  looking 
directly  down  upon  them.  As  the  windows  were  well  watched 
by  their  comrades  —  having  once  attained  their  place  of  con 
cealment —  it  followed  that  their  position  remained  entirely 
concealed  from  those  within.  They  lay  in  waiting  for  the 
favorable  moment  —  silent  as  the  grave,  and  sleepless  —  ready, 
when  the  garrison  should  determine  upon  a  sally,  to  fall  upon 
their  rear ;  and,  in  the  meanwhile,  quietly  preparing  dry  fuel 
in  quantity,  gathering  it  from  time  to  time  and  piling  it  against 
the  logs  of  the  fortress,  they  prepared  thus  to  fire  the  defenses 
that  shut  them  out  from  their  prey. 

There  was  yet  another  mode  of  finding  entrance,  which  has 
been  partially  glimpsed  at  already.  The  scouts  had  done  their 
office  diligently  in  more  than  the  required  respects.  Finding  a 
slender  pine  twisted  by  a  late  storm,  and  scarcely  sustained  by 
a  fragment  of  its  shaft,  they  applied  fire  to  the  rich  turpentine 
oozing  from  the  wounded  part  of  the  tree,  and  carefully  direct 
ing  its  fall,  as  it  yielded  to  the  fire,  they  lodged  its  extremest 
branches,  as  we  have  already  seen,  against  the  wall  of  the 
Block  House  and  just  beneath  the  window,  the  only  one  look 
ing  from  that  quarter  of  the  fortress.  Three  of  the  bravest  of 
their  warriors  were  assigned  for  scaling  this  point  and  securing 
their  entrance,  and  the  attack  was  forborne  by  the  rest  of  the 
band  while  their  present  design,  upon  which  they  built  greatly, 
was  in  progress. 

Let  us  then  turn  to  this  quarter.  We  have  already  seen  that 
the  dangers  of  this  position  were  duly  estimated  by  Grayson, 
under  the  suggestion  of  Granger's  wife.  Unhappily  for  its 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS  Ii; 

defense,  the  fate  of  the  ladder  prevented  that  due  attention  to 
the  subject,  at  once,  which  had  been  imperatively  called  for; 
and  the  subsequent  excitement  following  the  discovery  of  the 
immediate  proximity  of  the  Indians  had  turned  the  considera 
tion  of  the  defenders  to  the  opposite  end  of  the  building,  from 
whence  the  partial  attack  of  the  enemy,  as  described,  had  come. 
It  is  true  that  the  workmen  were  yet  busy  with  the  ladder.1 
but  the  assault  had  suspended  their  operations,  in  the  impatient 
curiosity  which  such  an  event  would  necessarily  induce,  even 
in  the  bosom  of  fear. 

The  wife  of  Gray  son  [Granger],  fully  conscious  of  the  dan 
ger,  was  alone  sleepless  in  that  apartment.  The  rest  of  the 
women,  scarcely  apprehensive  of  attack  at  all  and  perfectly 
ignorant  of  the  present  condition  of  affairs,  with  all  that  heed- 
lessness  which  marks  the  unreflecting  character,  had  sunk  to 
the  repose  (without  an  effort  at  watchfulness)  which  previous 
fatigues  had,  perhaps,  made  absolutely  unavoidable.  She,  alone, 
sat  thoughtful  and  silent  —  musing  over  present  prospects  — 
perhaps  of  the  past  —  but  still  unforgetful  of  the  difficulties 
and  the  dangers  before  her.  With  a  calm  temper  she  awaited 
the  relief  which,  with  the  repair  of  the  ladder,  she  looked  for 
from  below. 

In  the  meantime,  hearing  something  of  the  alarm,  together 
with  the  distant  war  whoop,  she  had  looked  around  her  for 
some  means  of  defense,  in  the  event  of  any  attempt  being 
made  upon  the  window  before  the  aid  promised  could  reach 
her.  But  a  solitary  weapon  met  her  eye,  in  a  long  heavy 
hatchet,  a  clumsy  instrument,  rather  more  like  the  cleaver  of  a 
butcher  than  the  light  and  slender  tomahawk  so  familiar  to  the 
Indians.  Having  secured  this,  with  the  composure  of  that  cour 
age  which  had  been  in  great  part  taught  her  by  the  necessities 

1  The  ladder  leading  up  from  the  floor  below  to  the  room  where  the  women 
were  had  become  broken  and  another  was  being  constructed.  [Editor's  note.] 


118     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

of  fortune,  she  prepared  to  do  without  other  assistance,  and  to 
forego  the  sentiment  of  dependence,  which  is  perhaps  one  of 
the  most  marked  characteristics  of  her  sex.  Calmly  looking 
round  upon  the  sleeping  and  defenseless  crowd  about  her,  she 
resumed  her  seat  upon  a  low  bench  in  a  corner  of  the  apart 
ment,  from  which  she  had  risen  to  secure  the  hatchet,  and, 
extinguishing  the  only  light  in  the  room,  fixed  her  eye  upon  the 
accessible  window,  while  every  thought  of  her  mind  prepared 
her  for  the  danger  which  was  at  hand.  She  had  not  long  been 
seated  when  she  fancied  that  she  heard  a  slight  rustling  of  the 
branches  of  the  fallen  tree  just  beneath  the  window.  She 
could  not  doubt  her  senses,  and  her  heart  swelled  and  throbbed 
with  the  consciousness  of  approaching  danger.  But  still  she 
was  firm  —  her  spirit  grew  more  confirmed  with  the  coming 
trial ;  and,  coolly  throwing  the  slippers  from  her  feet,  grasping 
firmly  her  hatchet  at  the  same  time,  she  softly  arose,  and  keep 
ing  close  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  she  made  her  way  to  a 
recess,  a  foot  or  so  from  the  entrance,  to  which  it  was  evident 
someone  was  cautiously  approaching  along  the  attenuated  body 
of  the  yielding  pine.  In  a  few  moments  a  shadow  darkened  the 
opening.  She  edged  more  closely  to  the  point  and  prepared 
for  the  intruder.  She  now  beheld  the  head  of  the  enemy  —  a 
fierce  and  foully  painted  savage  —  the  war  tuft  rising  up  into 
a  ridge,  something  like  a  comb,  and  his  face  smeared  with 
colors  in  a  style  most  ferociously  grotesque.  Still  she  could 
not  strike,  for,  as  he  had  not  penetrated  the  window,  and  as  its 
entrance  was  quite  too  small  to  enable  her  to  strike  with  any 
hope  of  success  at  any  distance  through  it,  she  felt  that  the 
effort  would  be  wholly  without  certainty,  and  failure  might  be 
of  the  worst  consequence.  Though  greatly  excited,  and  strug 
gling  between  doubt  and  determination,  she  readily  saw  what 
would  be  the  error  of  any  precipitation.  But  even  as  she  mused 
thus  apprehensively,  the  cunning  savage  laid  his  hand  upon  the 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS  119 

sill  of  the  window  the  better  to  raise  himself  to  its  level.  That 
sight  tempted  her,  in  spite  of  her  better  sense,  to  the  very  pre 
cipitation  she  had  desired  to  avoid.  In  the  moment  that  she 
saw  the  hand  of  the  red  man  upon  the  sill  the  hatchet 
descended,  under  an  impulse  scarcely  her  own.  She  struck  too 
quickly.  The  blow  was  given  with  all  her  force  and  would 
certainly  have  separated  the  hand  from  the  arm  had  it  taken 
effect.  But  the  quick  eye  of  the  Indian  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her  movement  at  the  very  moment  in  which  it  was  made,  and 
the  hand  was  withdrawn  before  the  hatchet  descended.  The 
steel  sank  deep  into  the  soft  wood  —  so  deeply  that  she  could 
not  disengage  it.  To  try  at  this  object  would  have  exposed  her 
at  once  to  his  weapon,  and,  leaving  it  where  it  stuck,  she  sank 
back  again  into  shadow. 

What  now  was  she  to  do  ?  To  stay  where  she  was  would  be 
of  little  avail,  but  to  cry  out  to  those  belo\\7  and  seek  to  fly, 
was  equally  unproductive  of  good,  besides  warning  the  enemy 
of  the  defenselessness  of  their  condition  and  thus  inviting  a 
renewal  of  the  attack.  The  thought  came  to  her  with  the 
danger,  and,  without  a  word,  she  maintained  her  position  in 
waiting  for  the  progress  of  events.  As  the  Indian  had  also 
sunk  from  sight,  and  some  moments  had  now  elapsed  without 
his  reappearance,  she  determined  to  make  another  effort  for 
the  recovery  of  the  hatchet.  She  grasped  it  by  the  handle,  and 
in  the  next  moment  the  hand  of  the  savage  was  upon  her  own. 
He  felt  that  his  grasp  was  on  the  fingers  of  a  woman,  and  in  a 
brief  word  and  something  of  a  chuckle,  while  he  still  maintained 
his  hold  upon  it,  he  conveyed  intelligence  of  the  fact  to  those 
below.  But  it  was  a  woman  with  a  man's  spirit  with  whom  he 
contended,  and  her  endeavor  was  successful  to  disengage  herself. 
The  same  success  did  not  attend  her  effort  to  recover  the 
weapon.  In  the  brief  struggle  with  her  enemy  it  had  become 
disengaged  from  the  wood,  and  while  both  strove  to  seize  it,  it 


120     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

slipped  from  their  mutual  hands  and,  sliding  over  the  sill,  in 
another  instant  was  heard  rattling  through  the  intervening 
bushes.  Descending  upon  the  ground  below,  it  became  the 
spoil  of  those  without,  whose  murmurs  of  gratulation  she 
distinctly  heard.  But  now  came  the  tug  of  difficulty.  The 
Indian,  striving  at  the  entrance,  was  necessarily  encouraged  by 
the  discovery  that  his  opponent  was  not  a  man,  and  assured,  at 
the  same  time,  by  the  forbearance  on  the  part  of  those  within 
to  strike  him  effectually  down  from  the  tree,  he  now  resolutely 
endeavored  to  effect  his  entrance.  His  head  was  again  fully  in 
sight  of  the  anxious  woman  —  then  his  shoulders,  and,  at  length, 
taking  a  firm  grasp  upon  the  sill,  he  strove  to  elevate  himself 
by  muscular  strength  so  as  to  secure  him  sufficient  purchase 
for  the  entrance  at  which  he  aimed. 

What  could  she  do  —  weaponless,  hopeless  ?  The  prospect 
was  startling  and  terrible  enough,  but  she  was  a  strong-minded 
woman,  and  impulse  served  her  when  reflection  would  most 
probably  have  taught  her  to  fly.  She  had  but  one  resource, 
and  as  the  Indian  had  gradually  thrust  one-lTa"rid~  forward  for 
the  hold  upon  the  sill,  and  raised  the  other  up  to  the  side  of  the 
window,  she  grasped  the  one  nighest  to  her  own.  She  grasped 
it  firmly  with  all  her  might,  and  to  advantage,  as,  having  lifted 
himself  on  tiptoe  for  the  purpose  of  ascent,  he  had  necessarily 
lost  much  of  the  control  which  a  secure  hold  for  his  feet  must 
have  given  him.  Her  grasp  sufficiently  assisted  him  forward  to 
lessen  still  more  greatly  the  security  of  his  feet,  while,  at  the 
same  time,  though  bringing  him  still  farther  into  the  apartment, 
placing  him  in  such  a  position  —  half  in  air  —  as  to  defeat  much 
of  the  muscular  exercise  which  his  limbs  would  have  possessed 
in  any  other  situation.  Her  weapon  now  would  have  been  all- 
important,  and  the  brave  woman  mentally  deplored  the  precipi 
tancy  with  which  she  had  acted  in  the  first  instance  and  which 
had  so  unhappily  deprived  her  of  its  use.  But  self-reproach  was 


WILLIAM   GILMORE    SIMMS  121 

unavailing  now,  and  she  was  satisfied  if  she  could  be  able  to 
retain  her  foe  in  his  present  position,  by  which,  keeping  him 
out,  or  in  and  out,  as  she  did,  she  necessarily  excluded  all  other 
foes  from  the  aperture  which  he  so  completely  filled  up.  The 
intruder,  though  desirous  enough  of  entrance  before,  was  rather 
reluctant  to  obtain  it  now,  under  existing  circumstances.  He 
strove  desperately  to  effect  a  retreat,  but  had  advanced  too  far, 
however,  to  be  easily  successful,  and  in  his  confusion  and  dis 
quiet  he  spoke  to  those  below,  in  his  own  language,  explaining 
his  difficulty  and  directing  their  movement  to  his  assistance. 
A  sudden  rush  along  the  tree  indicated  to  the  conscious  sense 
of  the  woman  the  new  danger,  in  the  approach  of  additional 
enemies,  who  must  not  only  sustain  but  push  forward  the  one 
with  whom  she  contended.  This  warned  her  at  once  of  the 
necessity  of  some  sudden  procedure,  if  she  hoped  to  do  anything 
for  her  own  and  the  safety  of  those  around  her  —  the  women 
and  the  children,  whom,  amid  all  the  contest,  she  had  never 
once  alarmed.  Putting  forth  all  her  strength,  therefore,  though 
nothing  in  comparison  with  that  of  him  whom  she  opposed  (had 
he  been  in  a  condition  to  exert  it),  she  strove  to  draw  him  still 
farther  across  the  entrance,  so  as  to  exclude,  if  possible,  the 
approach  of  those  coming  behind  him.  She  hoped  to  gain  time 
—  sufficient  time  for  those  preparing  the  ladder  to  come  to  her 
relief;  and  \vith  this  hope,  for  the  first  time,  she  called  aloud 
to  Grayson  and  her  husband. 

The  Indian,  in  the  meanwhile,  derived  the  support  for  his 
person  as  well  from  the  grasp  of  the  woman  as  from  his  own 
hold  upon  the  sill  of  the  window.  Her  effort,  necessarily  draw 
ing  him  still  farther  forward,  placed  him  so  completely  in  the 
way  of  his  allies  that  they  could  do  him  little  service  while 
things  remained  in  this  situation,  and,  to  complete  the  difficulties 
of  his  predicament,  while  they  busied  themselves  in  several 
efforts  at  his  extrication,  the  branches  of  the  little  tree  resting 


122     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

against  the  dwelling,  yielding  suddenly  to  the  unusual  weight 
upon  it, —  trembling  and  sinking  away  at  last, —  cracked  beneath 
the  burden  and,  snapping  off  from  its  several  holds,  fell  from 
under  them,  dragging  against  the  building  in  the  progress  down, 
thus  breaking  their  fall  but  cutting  off  all  their  hope  from  this 
mode  of  entrance  and  leaving  their  comrade  awkwardly  poised 
aloft,  able  neither  to  enter  nor  to  depart  from  the  window. 
The  tree  finally  settled  heavily  upon  the  ground,  and  with  it 
went  the  three  savages  who  had  so  readily  ascended  to  the 
assistance  of  their  comrade  —  bruised  and  very  much  hurt ; 
while  he,  now  without  any  support  but  that  which  he  derived 
from  the  sill  and  what  little  his  feet  could  secure  from  the 
irregular  crevices  between  the  logs  of  which  the  house  had  been 
built,  was  hung  in  air,  unable  to  advance  except  at  the  will  of 
his  woman  opponent,  and  dreading  a  far  worse  fall  from  his 
eminence  than  that  which  had  already  happened  to  his  allies. 
Desperate  with  his  situation,  he  thrust  his  arm,  as  it  was  still 
held  by  the  woman,  still  farther  into  the  window,  and  this  en 
abled  her  with  both  hands  to  secure  and  strengthen  the  grasp 
which  she  had  originally  taken  upon  it.  This  she  did  with  a 
new  courage  and  strength,  derived  from  the  voices  below,  by 
which  she  understood  a  promise  of  assistance.  Excited  and 
nerved,  she  drew  the  extended  arm  of  the  Indian,  in  spite  of 
all  his  struggles,  directly  over  the  sill,  so  as  to  turn  the  elbow 
completely  down  upon  it.  With  her  whole  weight  thus  em 
ployed,  bending  down  to  the  floor  to  strengthen  herself  to  the 
task,  she  pressed  the  arm  across  the  window  until  her  ears 
heard  the  distinct,  clear  crack  of  the  bone  —  until  she  heard 
the  groan  and  felt  the  awful  struggles  of  the  suffering  wretch, 
twisting  himself  round  with  all  his  effort  to  obtain  for  the 
shattered  arm  a  natural  and  relaxed  position,  and,  with  this 
object,  leaving  his  hold  upon  everything ;  only  sustained,  in 
deed,  by  the  grasp  of  his  enemy.  But  the  movement  of  the 


JOHN   ESTEN   COOKE  123 

woman  had  been  quite  too  sudden,  her  nerves  too  firm,  and  her 
strength  too  great,  to  suffer  him  to  succeed.  The  jagged  splin 
ters  of  the  broken  limb  were  thrust  up,  lacerating  and  tearing 
through  flesh  and  skin,  while  a  howl  of  the  acutest  agony 
attested  the  severity  of  that  suffering  which  could  extort  such 
an  acknowledgment  from  the  American  savage.  He  fainted 
in  his  pain,  and  as  the  weight  increased  upon  the  arm  of  the 
woman,  the  nature  of  her  sex  began  to  resume  its  sway.  With 
a  shudder  of  every  fiber,  she  released  her  hold  upon  him.  The 
effort  of  her  soul  was  over,  a  strange  sickness  came  upon 
her,  and  she  was  just  conscious  of  a  crashing  fall  of  the  heavy 
body  among  the  branches  of  the  tree  at  the  foot  of  the  window, 
when  she  staggered  back  fainting  into  the  arms  of  her  husband, 
who  just  at  that  moment  ascended  to  her  relief. 

[Under  the  leadership  of  Harrison  relief  comes  to  the  be 
sieged  in  the  blockhouse,  and  the  Indians  are  driven  off. 

After  the  defeat  of  the  Indians  Chorley  attempts  to  carry 
Bess  Matthews  away  on  his  ship,  but  is  shot  in  his  canoe 
by  Captain  Harrison,  and  Bess  Matthews  is  rescued.  Bess 
Matthews  consents  to  make  her  rescuer  happy  with  the  hand 
which  she  had  hitherto  denied  him.  It  is  disclosed  that  Har 
rison  is  really  the  governor  of  the  colony,  Charles  Craven,  and 
the  story  closes  with  an  account  of  how  the  colonists  drove 
the  Indians  back  further  from  the  coast  and  defeated  them  in 
a  final  battle.] 

JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE 

[John  Esten  Cooke  was  born  in  Winchester,  Virginia,  in  1830, 
and  died  in  Clarke  County,  Virginia,  in  1886.  He  left  school  early 
in  order  to  study  law,  but  preferring  literature,  he  devoted  himself 
largely  to  writing.  He  saw  service  in  the  Confederate  army.  When 
the  war  was  over  he  returned  to  his  literary  pursuits  and  continued 


124     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

to  write  novels  until  his  death.  His  novels  fall  into  two  groups  — 
those  on  Colonial  and  Revolutionary  times  and  those  relating  to  the 
Civil  War.  Besides  these  romances  —  in  all  some  twenty  or  more  — 
Cooke  wrote  a  life  of  Stonewall  Jackson  and  a  history  of  Virginia.] 


SELECTIONS  FROM  "THE  VIRGINIA  COMEDIANS" 
MR.  CHAMP  EFFINGHAM  OF  EFFINGHAM  HALL 

On  a  splendid  October  afternoon,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
1763,  two  persons  who  will  appear  frequently  in  this  history 

were  seated  in  the  great  dining 
room  of  Effingham  Hall. 

But  let  us  first  say  a  few 
words  of  this  old  mansion. 
Effingham  Hall  was  a  stately 
edifice  not  far  from  Williams- 
burg,  which,  as  everybody 
knows,  was  at  that  period  the 
capital  city  of  the  colony  of 
Virginia.  The  hall  was  con 
structed  of  elegant  brick 
brought  over  from  England; 
and  from  the  great  portico  in 
front  of  the  building  a  beauti 
ful  rolling  country  of  hills  and 
valleys,  field  and  forest,  spread 
JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE  itself  pleasantly  before  the  eye, 

bounded     far    off    along    the 

circling  belt  of  woods  by  the  bright  waters  of  the  noble  river. 
Entering  the  large  hall  of  the  old  house,  you  had  before  you 
walls  covered  with  deer's  antlers,  fishing  rods,  and  guns ;  por 
traits  of  cavaliers  and  dames  and  children ;  even  carefully 
painted  pictures  of  celebrated  race  horses,  on  whose  speed  and 


\ 


JOHN   ESTEN   COOKE  12$ 

—      "*•       .  •!_      mi— ^ 

bottom  many  thousands  of  pounds  haor  been  staked  and  lost 
and  won  in  their  day  and  generation. 

On  one  side  of  the  hall  a  broad  staircase  with  oaken  balus 
trade  led  to  the  numerous  apartments  above,  and  on  the 
opposite  side  a  door  gave  entrance  into  the  great  dining  room. 

The  dining  room  was  decorated  with  great  elegance,  the 
carved  oak  wainscot  extending  above  the  mantelpiece  in  an  un 
broken  expanse  of  fruits  and  flowers,  hideous  laughing  faces, 
and  long  foamy  surges  to  the  cornice.  The  furniture  was  in 
the  Louis  Quatorze  style,  which  the  reader  is  familiar  with, 
from  its  reproduction  in  our  own  day ;  and  the  chairs  were  the 
same  low-seated  affairs,  with  high  carved  backs,  which  are  now 
seen.  There  were  Chelsea  figures,  and  a  sideboard  full  of 
plate,  and  a  Japan  cabinet,  and  a  Kidderminster  carpet,  and 
huge  andirons.  On  the  andirons  crackled  a  few  twigs  lost  in 
the  great  country  fireplace. 

On  the  wall  hung  a  dozen  pictures  of  gay  gallants,  brave 
warriors,  and  dames  whose  eyes  outshone  their  diamonds ;  and 
more  than  one  ancestor  looked  grimly  down,  clad  in  a  cuirass 
and  armlet  and  holding  in  his  mailed  hand  the  sword  which  had 
done  bloody  service  in  its  time.  The  lady  portraits,  as  an  invari 
able  rule,  were  decorated  with  sunset  clouds  of  yellow  lace ;  the 
bright  locks  were  powdered,  and  many  little  black  patches  set  off 
the  dazzling  fairness  of  the  rounded  chins.  Lapdogs  nestled  on 
the  satin  laps ;  and  not  one  of  the  gay  dames  but  seemed  to  be 
smiling,  with  her  head  bent  sidewise  fascinatingly  on  the  courtly 
or  warlike  figures  ranged  with  them  in  a  long  glittering  line. 

These  portraits  are  worth  looking  up  to,  but  those  which  we 
promised  the  reader  are  real. 

In  one  of  the  carved  chairs,  if  anything  more  uncomfortable 
than  all  the  rest,  sits,  or  rather  lounges,  a  young  man  of  about 
twenty-five.  He  is  very  richly  clad,  and  in  a  costume  which 
would  be  apt  to  attract  a  large  share  of  attention  in  our  own 


126     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

day,  when  dress  seems  to  have  become  a  mere  covering,  and 
the  prosaic  tendencies  of  the  age  are  to  despise  everything  but 
what  ministers  to  actual  material  pleasure. 

The  gentleman  before  us  lives  fortunately  one  hundred  years 
before  our  day  and  suffers  from  an  opposite  tendency  in  cos 
tume.  His  head  is  covered  with  a  long  flowing  peruke,  heavy 
with  powder,  and  the  drop  curls  hang  down  on  his  cheeks 
ambrosially ;  his  cheeks  are  delicately  rouged  ;  and  two  patches, 
arranged  with  matchless  art,  complete  the  distinguished  tout 
j  ensemble  of  the  handsome  face.  At  breast  a  cloud  of  lace  re 
poses  on  the  rich  embroidery  of  his  figured  satin  waistcoat, 
reaching  to  his  knees ;  this  lace  is  point  de  Venise  and  white, 
that  fashion  having  come  in  just  one  month  since.  The  sleeves 
of  his  rich  doublet  are  turned  back  to  his  elbows  and  are  as 
large  as  a  bushel,  the  opening  being  filled  up,  however,  with 
**  long  ruffles,  which  reach  down  over  the  delicate  jeweled  hand. 
He  wears  silk  stockings  of  spotless  white,  and  his  feet  are 
!,  cased  in  slippers  of  Spanish  leather,  adorned  with  diamond 
buckles.  Add  velvet  garters  below  the  knee,  a  little  muff  of 
leopard  skin  reposing  near  at  hand  upon  a  chair,  not  omitting  a 
snuffbox  peeping  from  the  pocket,  and  Mr.  Champ  EfBngham, 
just  from  Oxford  and  his  grand  tour,  is  before  you  with  his 
various  surroundings. 

He  is  reading  the  work  which  some  time  since  attained  to 
such  extreme  popularity  —  Mr.  Joseph  Addison's  serial,  "The 
Spectator,"  collected  now,  for  its  great  merits,  into  bound  vol 
umes.  Mr.  Effingham  reads  with  a  languid  air  (just  as  he  sits) 
and  turns  over  the  leaves  with  an  ivory  paper  cutter  which  he 
brought  from  Venice  with  the  plate  glass  yonder  on  the  side 
board  near  the  silver  baskets  and  pitchers.  This  languor  is 
too  perfect  to  be  wholly  affected,  and  when  he  yawns,  as  he 
does  frequently,  Mr.  Efnngham  applies  himself  to  that  task 
very  earnestly. 


JOHN    ESTEN   COOKE  I2/ 

In  one  of  these  paroxysms  of  weariness  the  volume  slips 
from  his  hand  to  the  floor. 

"  My  book,"  he  says  to  a  negro  boy,  who  has  just  brought 
in  some  dishes.  The  boy  hastens  respectfully  to  obey,  crossing 
the  whole  \vidth  of  the  room  for  that  purpose.  Mr.  Effingham 
then  continues  reading. 

[As  Effingham  rode  over  to  a  neighboring  estate  that  after 
noon  to  call  on  Miss  Lee,  he  met  an  unknown  lady  on  horse 
back.  Struck  by  her  appearance,  he  endeavors  to  make  her 
acquaintance  but  unsuccessfully. 

A  few  days  later  Effingham  is  among  those  who  attend  the 
presentation  of  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice  "  given  by  the  Vir-  * 
ginia  Company  of  Comedians  in  the  Old  Theater  near  the  capi- 
tol  at  Williamsburg.  He  discovers  that  Portia  in  the  play  is 
none  other  than  the  beautiful  rider  whom  he  has  met.  He 
falls  desperately  in  love  with  her,  but  she  treats  coldly  all  his  f 
attempts  to  push  the  acquaintance.  A  little  later,  while  Beatrice  **-• 
was  taking  an  outing  on  the  James  River,  her  boat  was  upset 
by  a  storm  and  she  was  rescued  by  Charles  Waters,  a  poor 
fisherman's  son.  This  occurrence  marks  the  beginning  of  a 
friendship  between  these  two  which  ripens  rapidly  into  love. 
Effingham's  infatuation  for  Beatrice  led  him  to  become  a  mem 
ber  of  the  Virginia  Company  of  Comedians,  in  spite  of  the 
break  with  social  traditions  that  such  a  step  involves.  Beatrice, 
however,  grows  more  and  more  disdainful  of  his  attentions.  In 
the  meantime  she  discovers  through  the  initials  "  B.  W."  on  a 
locket  she  has  been  wearing,  and  a  letter  which  comes  acci 
dentally  into  her  hands,  that  her  real  name  is  not  Beatrice 
Hallam,  but  Beatrice  Waters,  and  that  she  and  Charles 
Waters  are  cousins.  Her  father  had  at  his  death  intrusted 
her  to  Hallam,  his  friend,  to  carry  to  his  brother,  John  Waters, 
who  was  supposed  to  be  in  London.  But  John  Waters  had 


128     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN    LITERATURE 

emigrated  to  Virginia,  and  Hallam,  having  been  unable  to  find 
him,  had  brought  Beatrice  up  under  the  impression  that  she 
was  his  daughter.  As  she  is  disclosing  all  this  to  Charles 
Waters,  Efrmgham  enters  the  room,  and  believing  his  suspi 
cions  confirmed  of  having  a  rival  in  Charles  Waters,  challenges 
him  to  a  duel.  It  is  under  these  circumstances  that  Effingham 
insists  that  Beatrice  shall  keep  the  promise  which  he  extorted 
from  her  some  time  earlier  in  the  story  to  accompany  him  to 
the  Governor's  ball.] 

GOVERNOR  FAUQUIER'S  BALL 

The  day  for  the  meeting  of  the  House  of  Burgesses  had 
arrived.  .  .  . 

We  have  already  expended  some  words  upon  the  appearance 
'of  the  town  for  days  before  this  important  occasion,  and  can 
now  only  add  that  the  bustle  was  vastly  greater,  the  laughter 
louder,  the  crowd  larger,  and  the  general  excitement  a  thousand 
fold  increased  on  this,  the  long-expected  morning.    We  have  no 
space  to  enter  into  a  full  description  of  the  appearance  which 
the  borough  presented ;  indeed,  this  narrative  is  not  the  proper 
place  for  such  historic  disquisitions,  dealing  as  it  does  with  the 
fortunes  of  a  few  personages  who  pursued  their  various  careers, 
and  laughed  and  wept,   and  loved   and  hated,  almost  wholly 
without  the  "aid  of  government."    It  was  scarcely  very  im 
portant  to  Beatrice,  for  instance,  that  his  Excellency  Governor 
/    Fauquier  set  out  from  the  palace  to  the  sound  of  cannon,  and 
(     drawn  slowly  in  his  splendid  chariot  with  its  six  glossy  snow- 
)  white  horses,  and  its  bodyguard  of  cavalry,  went  to  the  capitol, 
/  and  so  delivered  there  his  gracious  and  vice-regal  greeting  to  the 
|  Burgesses,  listening  in  respectful,  thoughtful  silence.   The  crowd 
could  not  drive  away  the  poor  girl's  various  disquieting  thoughts ; 
the  smile  which  his  Excellency  threw  towards  the  Raleigh,  and 


JOHN    ESTEN   COOKE 


129 


its  throng  of  lookers-on,  scarcely  shed  any  light  upon  her 
anxious  and  fearful  heart ;  she  only  felt  that  to-night  the  crowd 
at  the  theater  would  be  noisier  and  more  dense,  her  duty  only 
more  repulsive  to  her  —  finally,  that  all  this  bustle  and  con 
fusion  was  to  terminate  in  a  ball,  at  which  she  was  to  pass 


THE    RALEIGH  TAVERN   IN  OLD  WILLIAMSBURG,  AND  ITS   FAMOUS 
APOLLO  ROOM 

This  historic  tavern,  mentioned  constantly  in  John  Esten  Cooke's 
"The  Virginia  Comedians,"  was  built  before  1735  and  stood  until  it 
was  burned  in  1859.  The  Apollo  was  the  room  of  the  tavern  used  for 
balls,  banquets,  political  and  other  gatherings.  Few  apartments  have 
witnessed  as  many  scenes  of  brilliant  festivity  and  political  excitement 

through  a  fiery  ordeal  of  frowns  and  comments,  even  through 
worse,  perhaps  more  dreadful,  trials.  She  had  not  dared  that 
morning,  when  her  father  told  her  he  should  expect  her  to  keep 
her  promise  and  accompany  the  young  man  after  the  theater 
to  the  ball  —  the  poor  girl  had  not  dared  to  speak  of  her  secret, 


130     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

or  to  resist.  Then  she  had  promised — that  was  the  terrible 
truth  ;  and  so  she  had  only  entreated,  and  cried,  and  besought 
her  father  to  have  mercy  on  her ;  and  these  entreaties,  prayers, 
and  sobs  having  had  no  effect,  had  yielded  and  gone  into  her 
bedchamber  and,  upon  her  knees,  with  Kate's  little  Bible  open 
before  her,  asked  the  great  heavenly  Father  to  take  care  of  her. 
All  this  splendid  pageant  —  all  this  roar  of  cannon,  blare  of 
trumpets,  rumbling  thunder  of  the  incessant  drums  —  could  not 
make  her  heart  any  lighter ;  her  face  was  still  dark.  And  the 
spectacle  had  as  little  effect  upon  the  other  personages  of  the 
narrative.  Mr.  Effingham,  seated  in  his  room,  smiled  scorn 
fully  as  the  music  and  the  people's  shouts  came  to  him.  Fie 
felt  that  all  that  noisy  and  joyous  world  was  alien  to  him  — 
cared  nothing  for  him  —  was  perfectly  indifferent  whether  he 
suffered  or  was  happy.  He  despised  the  empty  fools  in  his  heart, 
without  reflecting  that  the  jar  and  discord  was  not  in  the  music 
and  the  voices  but  in  himself.  And  this  was  the  audience  he 
would  have  to  see  him  play  Benedick !  —  these  plebeian  voices 
would  have  liberty  to  applaud  or  hiss  him!  —  the  thought 
nearly  opened  his  eyes  to  the  true  character  of  the  step  he  was 
about  to  take.  What  was  he  about  to  do  ?  That  night  he  was 
going  to  the  palace  of  the  Governor  with  an  actress  leaning  on 
his  arm  —  there  to  defy  the  whole  Colony  of  Virginia  ;  in  effect 
to  say  to  them,  "  Look !  you  laugh  at  me  —  I  show  you  that  I 
scorn  you ! "  —  then  in  a  day  or  two  his  name  would  be  pub 
lished  in  a  placard,  "  The  part  of  Benedick,  by  Champ  Effing- 
ham,  Esq."  —  to  be  made  the  subject  of  satirical  and  insulting 
comment  by  the  very  boors  and  overseers.  These  two  things 
he  was  about  to  do,  and  he  drew  back  for  a  moment  —  for  an 
instant  hesitated.  But  suddenly  the  interview  he  had  with 
Hamilton  came  back  to  him,  and  his  lip  was  wreathed  with  his 
reckless  sneer  again.  They  would  not  permit  him,  forsooth  !  — 
his  appearance  at  the  ball  with  Miss  Hallam  would  be  regarded 


JOHN   ESTEN   COOKE  131 

as  a  general  insult,  and  a  dozen  duels  spring  out  of  it !  —  he 
would  do  well  to  avoid  the  place !  —  to  sneak,  to  skulk,  to 
swallow  all  his  fine  promises  and  boasts ! 

"  No  !  "  he  said  aloud,  with  his  teeth  clenched  ;  "  by  heaven! 
I  go  there  and  I  act !  I  love  her  and  I  hate  her  more  than 
ever,  and,  if  necessary,  will  fight  a  hundred  duels  for  her  with 
these  chivalric  gentlemen  !  " 

So  the  day  passed,  and  evening  drew  on  slowly,  and  the 
night  came.  Let  us  leave  the  bustling  crowd  hurrying  toward 
the  theater  —  leave  the  taverns  overflowing  with  revelers  —  let 
us  traverse  Gloucester  Street,  and  enter  the  grounds,  through 
which  a  fine  white  graveled  walk  leads  to  the  palace.  On  each 
side  of  this  walk  a  row  of  linden  trees  are  ornamented  with 
variegated  lanterns,  and  ere  long  these  lanterns  light  up  lovely 
figures  of  fair  dames  and  gallant  gentlemen,  walking  daintily 
from  the  carriage  portal  to  the  palace.  Let  us  enter.  Before 
us  have  passed  many  guests,  and  the  large  apartments,  with 
their  globe  lamps  and  chandeliers,  and  portraits  of  the  king  and 
queen,  and  Chelsea  figures,  and  red  damask  chairs,  and  numer 
ous  card  tables,  are  already  filling  with  the  beauty  and  grace  of 
that  former  brilliant  and  imposing  society. 

See  this  group  of  lovely  young  girls,  with  powdered  hair 
brushed  back  from  their  tender  temples,  and  snowy  necks  and 
shoulders  glittering  with  diamond  necklaces ;  see  the  queer 
patches  on  their  chins  close  by  the  dimples ;  see  their  large 
falling  sleeves,  and  yellow  lace,  and  bodices  with  their  silken 
network ;  see  their  gowns,  looped  back  from  the  satin  under 
skirt,  ornamented  with  flowers  in  golden  thread ;  their  trains 
and  fans  and  high  red-heeled  shoes,  and  all  their  puffs  and 
furbelows  and  flounces ;  see,  above  all,  their  gracious  smiles, 
as  they  flirt  their  fans  and  dart  their  fatal  glances  at  the  mag 
nificently  clad  gentlemen  in  huge  ruffles  and  silk  stockings, 
and  long,  broad-flapped  waistcoats  and  embroidered  coats,  with 


132     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

sleeves  turned  back  to  the  elbow  and  profusely  laced ;  see  how 
they  ogle,  and  speak  with  dainty  softness  under  their  breath, 
and  sigh  and  smile,  and  ever  continue  playing  on  the  hapless 
cavaliers  the  dangerous  artillery  of  their  brilliant  eyes. 

Or  see  this  group  of  young  country  gentlemen,  followers  of 
the  fox,  with  their  ruddy  faces  and  laughing  voices ;  their 
queues  secured  by  plain  black  ribbon ;  their  strong  hands, 
accustomed  to  heavy  buckskin  riding  gloves ;  their  talk  of 
hunting,  crops,  the  breed  of  sheep  and  cattle,  and  the  blood 
of  horses. 

Or  pause  a  moment  near  that  group  of  dignified  gentlemen, 
with  dresses  plain  though  rich,  and  lordly  brows  and  clear 
bright  eyes,  strong  enough  to  look  upon  the  sun  of  royalty  1: 
and,  undazzled,  see  the  spots  disfiguring  it.  Hear  them  con 
verse  calmly,  simply,  like  giants  knowing  their  strength ;  how 
slow  and  clear  and  courteous  their  tones !  how  plain  their 
manners ! 

Lastly,  see  the  motley  throng  of  the  humbler  planters,  some 
of  the  tradesmen,  factors  as  they  were  called,  mingled  with  the 
yeoman ;  see  their  wives  and  daughters,  fair  and  attractive,  but 
so  wholly  outshone  by  the  little  powdered  damsels ;  last  of  all, 
though  not  least,  see  his  bland  Excellency  Governor  Fauquier 
gliding  among  the  various  groups  and  smiling  on  everybody. 

Let  us  endeavor  to  catch  some  of  the  words  uttered,  by 
these  various  personages,  now  so  long  withdrawn  from  us  in 
the  far  past  —  that  silent,  stern,  inexorable  past,  which  swallows 
up  so  many  noble  forms,  and  golden  voices,  and  high  deeds, 
and  which  in  turn  will  obliterate  us  and  our  little  or  great 
actions,  as  it  has  effaced  —  though  Heaven  be  thanked,  not 
wholly !  —  what  illustrated  and  adorned  those  times  which  we 
are  now  trying  to  depict.  And  first  let  us  listen  to  this 
group  of  quiet,  calm-looking  men ;  fame  has  spoken  loudly  of 
them  all. 


JOHN   ESTEN   COOKE  133 

"  Your  reverend  opponent  really  got  the  better  of  you,  I 
think,  sir,"  says  a  quiet,  plain,  simple  gentleman,  with  a  fine 
face  and  eye.  "  The  Twopenny- Act  made  out  too  clear  a  case, 
in  mere  point  of  law,  to  need  the  afterclap." 

"  True,  sir,"  his  friend  replies,  smiling  so  pleasantly  that 
his  very  name  seemed  to  indicate  his  character,  ''  but  I  would 
willingly  be  unhorsed  again  by  the  Reverend  Mr.  Camm,  in  a 
cause  so  good.  Everything  concerning  Virginia,  you  know,  is 
dear  to  me.  I  believe  some  of  my  friends  consider  me  demented 
on  the  subject  —  or  at  least  call  me  the  '  Virginia  Antiquary.' " 

"  I  consider  it  a  very  worthy  designation,  sir ;  and  in  spite 
of  my  opinion  that  *  The  Colonel's  Dismounted '  is  an  appropri 
ate  title, —  I  cannot  be  otherwise  than  frank  ever, —  I  am  fully 
convinced  that  equity  was  with  you.  But  here  comes  our  noble 
Roman." 

As  he  speaks,  a  tall,  fine-looking  gentleman  approaches,  with 
an  eagle  eye,  a  statuesque  head,  inclined  forward  as  though 
listening  courteously,  a  smile  upon  his  lips,  his  right  hand  cov 
ered  with  a  black  bandage. 

"  What  news  from  Westmoreland,  pray,  seigneur  of  Chan- 
tilly  ? "  asks  the  opponent  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Camm.  "  Do 
they  think  of  testing  the  Twopenny- Act  by  suits  for  damages  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  says  the  newcomer,  very  courteously ;  "  I  believe, 
however,  that  in  Hanover  County  the  Reverend  Mr.  Maury  has 
brought  suit  against  the  collector." 

"Ah,  then  we  shall  get  some  information  from  our  friend 
from  Caroline !  See,  here  he  is.  Good  day,  sir ! " 

He  who  now  approaches  has  the  same  calm,  benignant  ex 
pression  as  the  rest  —  an  expression,  indeed,  which  seems  to 
have  dwelt  always  on  those  serene  noble  faces  of  that  period,  so 
full  of  stirring  events  and  strong  natures.  The  face  was  not 
unlike  that  which  we  fancy  Joseph  Addison's  must  have  been  : 
a  quiet,  serene  smile,  full  of  courtesy  and  sweetness,  illuminated 


134     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

it,  attracting  people  of  all  ages  and  conditions.  When  he  speaks, 
it  is  in  the  vox  argentea  of  Cicero  —  a  gentle  stream  of  sound, 
rippling  in  the  sunlight. 

"  What  from  Caroline,  pray?"  asks  the ' dismounted  Colonel,' 
pressing  the  hand  held  out  to  him  with  great  warmth.  "  Do 
the  clergy  speak  of  bringing  suit  to  recover  damages  at  once, 
for  the  acts  of  '55  and  '58?" 

"  I  believe  not,"  the  gentleman  from  Caroline  replies,  cour 
teously,  in  his  soft  voice ;  "  but  have  you  not  heard  the  news 
from  Hanover?" 

"  No,  sir ;  pray  let  us  hear  — 

"  In  the  action  brought  by  the  Reverend  Mr.  Maury  against 
the  collector,  a  young  man  of  that  county  has  procured  a  tri 
umphant  verdict  for  the  collector." 

"  For  the  collector  ? " 

"  Yes !  " 

"  Against  the  clergy  ?  " 

"  Yes !  " 

"  You  said  a  triumphant  verdict  ? " 

"  One  penny  damages.  " 

An  expression  of  extreme  delight  diffuses  itself  over  the 
face  of  the  gentleman  receiving  this  reply. 

"  And  what  is  the  name  of  the  young  man  who  has  worked 
this  wonder  ? " 

"  Mr.  Patrick  Henry.  " 

"  I  have  no  acquaintance  with  him.  " 

"  I  think  you  will  have,  however,  sir.  His  speech  is  said  to 
have  been  something  wonderful ;  the  people  carried  him  on  their 
shoulders,  the  parsons  fled  from  the  bench  —  I  found  the 
county,  as  I  passed  through,  completely  crazy  with  delight.  But 
what  is  that  small  volume,  peeping  from  your  pocket,  sir  ? " 
adds  the  speaker,  with  a  smile  at  the  abstracted  and  delighted 
expression  of  his  interlocutor. 


JOHN   ESTEN   COOKE  135 

"  An  Anacreon,  from  Glasgow,  sir,"  says  the  other,  almost 
forgetting  his  delight  at  the  issue  of  the  parsons'  cause,  as  he 
takes  the  book  from  his  pocket  and  opens  it.  It  is  a  small 
thin  volume,  with  an  embossed  back,  covered  with  odd  gilt 
figures ;  and  the  Greek  type  is  of  great  size,  and  very  black 
and  heavy. 

"  Greek  ? "  says  the  gentleman  from  Caroline,  smiling  se 
renely.  "Ah,  I  fear  it  is  Hebrew  to  me!  I  may  say,  how 
ever,  that  from  what  I  have  heard,  this  young  Mr.  Henry 
is  a  fair  match  for  a  former  orator  of  that  language  — 
Demosthenes ! " 

"  Well,  sir,"  says  the  Roman,  "  if  he  is  Demosthenes,  yonder 
is  our  valiant  Alexander  !  " 

"  Who  is  he  ?  " 

"Is  that  fine  face  not  familiar ? " 

"  Ah,  Col.  Washington !  I  know  him  but  slightly ;  yet,  as 
suredly,  his  countenance  gives  promise  of  a  noble  nature  ;  he  has 
certainly  already  done  great  service  to  the  government,  and  I 
wonder  his  Majesty  has  not  promoted  him.  His  promotion 
will,  however,  await  further  services,  I  fancy." 

"  Ah,  gentlemen,  you  are  welcome  !  "  says  a  courteous  voice ; 
"  Mr.  Wythe,  Colonel  Bland,  Mr.  Lee,  Mr.  Pendleton,  I  rejoice 
to  see  you  all :  welcome,  welcome  !  "  And  his  Excellency  Gov 
ernor  Fauquier,  with  courtly  urbanity,  presses  the  hands  of  his 
guests. 

"  You  will  find  card  tables  in  the  next  room,  should  you  fancy 
joining  in  the  fascinating  amusements  of  tictac  and  spadille/'  he 
adds,  blandly  smiling  as  he  passes  on. 

The  next  group  which  we  approach  is  quite  large,  and  all  talk 
at  once,  with  hearty  laughter  and  rough  frankness ;  and  this 
talk  concerns  itself  with  plantation  matters  —  the  blood  of 
horses,  breeds  of  cattle,  and  the  chase.  Let  us  listen,  even  if 
in  the  uproar  we  can  catch  nothing  very  connected,  and  at  the 


136     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

risk  of  finding  ourselves  puzzled  by  the  jumble  of  questions 
and  replies. 

"  The  three-field  system,  I  think,  sir,  has  the  advantage  over 
all  others  of  — 

"  Oh,  excellent,  sir !  I  never  saw  a  finer  leaf,  and  when  we 
cut  it  —  " 

"  Suddenly  the  blood  rushed  over  his  frill,  and  we  found  he 
had  broken  his  collar  bone  !  " 

"  The  finest  pack,  I  think,  in  all  Prince  George  —  " 

"  By  George  !  —  " 

"  He's  a  fine  fellow,  and  has,  I  think,  cause  to  congratulate  him 
self  on  his  luck.  His  wife  is  the  loveliest  girl  I  ever  saw,  and  — " 

"  Trots  like  lightning !  " 

"  Well,  well,  nothing  astonishes  me !  The  world  must  be 
coming  to  an  end  — ' 

"  On  Monday  forenoon  —  " 

"  On  the  night  before  —  " 

"  They  say  the  races  near  Jamestown  will  be  more  crowded 
this  year  than  ever.  I  announced  —  " 

"  The  devil !  —  " 

"  Good  evening,  sir ;  I  hope  your  mare  will  be  in  good  con 
dition  for  the  race  —  " 

"  To  destruction,  sir —  I  tell  you  such  a  black  act  would  ruin 
the  ministry  —  even  Granville  —  " 

"  Loves  his  pipe  —  " 

"  The  races  —  " 

"  Hedges  —  " 

"  Distanced  —  " 

"I  know  his  pedigree;  you  are  mistaken  —  by  Sir  Archy, 
dam  — : 

"  The  odds  ?  I  close  with  you.  Indeed,  I  think  I  could 
afford  —  " 

"  Ah,   gentlemen !  "  a  courteous  voice  interposes,  amid  the 


JOHN   ESTEN   COOKE  137 

uproar,  "  talking  of  races  ?  Mr.  Hamilton,  Mr.  Lane,  welcome 
to  my  poor  house !  You  will  find  card  tables  in  the  adjoining 
room."  And  his  bland  Excellency  passes  on. 

Space  fails  us  or  we  might  set  down  for  the  reader's  amuse 
ment  some  of  the  quiet  and  pleasant  talk  of  the  well-to-do 
factors  and  humbler  planters  and  their  beautiful  wives  and 
daughters.  We  must  pass  on ;  but  let  us  pause  a  moment  yet 
to  hear  what  this  group  of  magnificently  dressed  young  dames 
and  their  gay  gallants  are  saying. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Alston,  your  compliments  surpass  any  which 
I  have  received  for  a  very  long  time,"  says  a  fascinating  little 
beauty,  in  a  multiplicity  of  furbelows  and  with  a  small  snow 
storm  on  her  head,  —  flirting  her  fan,  all  covered  with  Corydons 
and  Chloes,  as  she  speaks ;  "  what  verses  did  you  allude  to, 
when  you  said  that  *  Laura  was  the  very  image  of  myself '  ? 
I  am  dying  with  curiosity  to  know  1 " 

"  Those  written  by  our  new  poet  yonder ;  have  you  not 
heard  them  ? " 

"  No,  sir,  upon  my  word  !    But  the  author  is  —  " 

"  The  Earl  of  Dorset,  yonder." 

"  The  Earl  of  Dorset !  " 

"  Ah,  charming  Miss  Laura !  permit  the  muse  to  decorate 
herself  with  a  coronet,  and  promenade,  in  powdered  wig  and 
ruffles,  without  questioning  her  pedigree." 

A  little  laugh  greets  these  petit  maltre  words. 

"  Well,   sir,   the  verses,"  says   Laura,   with  a  fatal  glance. 

The  gallant  bows  low,  and  draws  from  his  pocket  a  man 
uscript,  secured  with  blue  ribbon  and  elegantly  written  in  the 
round,  honest-looking  characters  of  the  day. 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  says. 

And  all  the  beautiful  girls  who  have  listened  to  the  colloquy 
gather  around  the  reader,  to  drink  in  the  fascinating  rimes 
of  the  muse,  in  an  earl's  coronet  and  powder. 


138     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"  First  comes  the  prologue,  as  I  may  say,"  the  reader  com 
mences  ;  "  it  is  an  address  to  his  pen  : 

Wilt  thou,  advent'rous  pen,  describe 
The  gay,  delightful  silken  tribe, 
1   That  maddens  all  our  city  ; 
Nor  dread  lest  while  you  foolish  claim 
A  near  approach  to  beauty's  flame, 
Icarus'  fate  may  hit  ye !  " 

The  speaker  pauses,  and  a  great  fluttering  of  fans  ensues, 
with  many  admiring  comments  on  the  magnificent  simile  of 
Icarus. 

The  reader  continues,  daintily  arranging  his  snowy  frill. 
"  Mark  the  fate  of  the  bard,"  he  says,  and  reads : 

"  With  singed  pinions  tumbling  down, 
The  scorn  and  laughter  of  the  town, 

Thou  'It  rue  thy  daring  flight. 
While  every  Miss,  with  cool  contempt, 
Affronted  by  the  bold  attempt, 

Will,  tittering,  view  thy  plight." 

"Tittering — observe  the  expressive  phrase,"  says  the  reader. 

They  all  cry  out  at  this. 

"  Tittering !  " 

"  Ladies  do  not  titter  1 " 

"  Really !  " 

"  Tittering ! " 

The  serene  reader  raises  his  hand,  and,  adjusting  his  wig,  says: 

"  Mere  poetic  license,  ladies ;  merely  imagination ;  not  fact. 
True,  very  true!  ladies  never  titter — an  abominable  imputa 
tion.  But,  listen." 

And  he  continues : 

"  Myrtilla's  beauties  who  can  paint, 
The  well-turned  form,  the  glowing  teint, 
May  deck  a  common  creature ; 


JOHN   ESTEN   COOKE  139 

But  who  can  make  th'  expressive  soul, 
With  lively  sense  inform  the  whole, 
And  light  up  every  feature?  " 

"  A  bad  rime  '  teint,'  and  a  somewhat  aristocratic  allusion  to 
*  common  creatures,'  "  says  the  reader. 

"  Oh,  it  is  beautiful !  "  says  a  pretty  little  damsel,  enthusi 
astically. 

"I  am  glad  you  like  your  portrait,  my  dear  madam/'  says  the 
gallant,  "  I  assure  you  that  Myrtilla  was  designed  for  you," 

"Oh!"  murmurs  Myrtilla,  covering  her  face  with  her  fan. .  .  . 

Some  more  verses  are  read,  and  they  are  received  with  a 
variety  of  comment. 

"  Listen  now,  to  the  last,"  says  the  engaging  reader. 

"  With  pensive  look  and  head  reclined, 
Sweet  emblem  of  the  purest  mind, 

Lo !  where  Cordelia  sits  ! 
On  Dion's  image  dwells  the  fair  — 
Dion,  the  thunderbolt  of  war  — 

The  prince  of  modern  wits ! 

"  At  length  fatigued  with  beauty's  blaze, 
The  feeble  muse  no  more  essays, 

Her  picture  to  complete. 
The  promised  charms  of  younger  girls, 
When  nature  the  gay  scene  unfurls, 

Some  happier  bard  shall  treat !  " 

There  is  a  silence  for  some  moments  after  these  words  — 
the  manuscript  having  passed  from  the  gallant's  hands  to 
another  group. 

"  Who  is  Cordelia  ?  let  me  think,"  says  Laura,  knitting  her 
brows,  and  raising  to  her  lips  a  fairy  hand  covered  with  dia 
monds,  absently. 


140     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"  And  Dion  —  who  can  he  be  ?  "  says  Isadora,  twisting  her 
satin  sleeve  between  her  fingers  abstractedly. 

"  It  is  !  —  no,  it  is  not !  " 

"  I  know,  now  !  —  but  that  don't  suit !  " 

"  Permit  me  to  end  your  perplexity,  ladies,"  says  the 
oracle,  "  Cordelia  is  Miss  Clare  Lee,  and  Dion  is  Mr.  Champ 
Effingham !  " 

A  general  exclamation  of  surprise  from  all  the  ladies. 
They  say : 

"  It  suits  him,  possibly,  but  —  " 

"  He  may  be  the  prince  of  wits ;  still  it  does  not  follow  —  " 

"  Certainly  not,  that  —  " 

"  Clare  is  not  such  a  little  saint !  " 

"  Let  me  defend  her,"  says  a  gentleman,  smiling ;  "  I 
grant  you  that  't  is  extravagant  to  call  Mr.  Effingham  a 
thunderbolt  —  " 

"  Laughable." 

"  Amusing,"  say  the  gentlemen. 

"  Or  the  prince  of  modern  wits,"  continues  the  counsel  for 
the  defense. 

"  Preposterous !  " 

"  Unjust !  "  they  add. 

"  But  I  must  be  permitted  to  say,"  goes  on  the  chivalric 
defender  of  the  absent,  "  that  Miss  Clare  Lee  fully  deserves 
her  character;  the  comparison  of  that  lovely  girl,  ladies,  to 
Cordelia  —  Cordelia,  the  sweetest  of  all  Shakespeare's  char 
acters —  seems  to  me  nothing  more  than  justice." 

The  gentlemen  greet  this  with  enthusiastic  applause,  for  our 
little,  long-lost-sight  of  heroine  had  subdued  all  hearts. 

"  As  regards  Mr.  Effingham,"  adds  Clare's  knight,  "  I  shall 
be  pardoned  for  not  saying  anything,  since  he  is  not  present." 

"  Then  I  will  say  something,"  here  interposes  a  small  gentle 
man,  with  a  waistcoat  reaching  to  his  knees  and  profusely 


JOHN   ESTEN   COOKE  141 

laced,  like  all  the  rest  of  his  clothes,  —  indeed,  the  richness 
of  his  costume  was  distressing, — "but  I  will  say,  sir,  that 
Mr.  Effingham's  treatment  of  that  divine  creature,  Miss  Clare 
Lee,  is  shameful." 

"  How  ? "  ask  the  ladies,  agitating  their  fans  and  scenting  a 
delicious  bit  of  scandal. 

"  Why,"  says  the  gentleman  in  the  long  waistcoat,  squaring 
himself,  so  to  speak,  and  greatly  delighted  at  the  sudden  acces 
sion  to  his  importance  —  the  general  opinion  being  that  he  was 
somewhat  insignificant,  "  why,  ladies,  he  has  been  running  after 
that  little  jade,  Miss  Hallam  !  " 

"Miss  Hallam!"  cry  the  ladies,  in  virtuous  ignorance,  though 
nothing  was  more  notorious  than  the  goings-on  of  our  friend 
Mr.  Effingham,  "  Miss  Hallam  !  " 

"  Precisely,  ladies." 

"  The  actress  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  A  playing  girl !  "  exclaims  a  lady,  of  say  thirty,  and  cover 
ing  her  face  as  she  spoke. 

"  Falling  in  love  with  her !  " 

"  Possible  ? " 

"  Have  n't  you  heard  all  about  it  ? " 

This  home  question  causes  a  flutter  and  a  silence. 

"  I  '11  tell  you,  then,"  continues  the  gentleman  in  the  long 
waistcoat,  "  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  the  doings  of  *  Dion,  the 
thunderbolt  of  war,  and  prince  of  modern  wits.'  He,  the  thun 
derbolt  of  war  ?  —  preposterous  !  ffe,  the  prince  of  wits  ?  — 
ludicrous !  He  may  be  the  king  of  coxcombs,  the  coryphaeus 
of  dandies  —  but  that  is  all." 

The  gentlemen  standing  around  listen  to  these  words  with 
some  amusement  and  more  disgust.  It  is  plain  that  some  secret 
spite  actuates  the  gentleman  in  the  long  waistcoat. 

"  Well,  let  us  hear  Mr.  Effingham's  crimes,"  says  Laura. 


142     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"  By  all  means,"  adds  Isadora. 

"  Of  course,"  says  Myrtilla. 

"  He  has  been  making  himself  ridiculous  about  that  actress," 
continues  the  chronicler,  "  and,  I  have  even  heard,  designs  to 
marry  her." 

The  ladies  make  a  movement  to  express  surprise  and  indig 
nation  but,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  suppress  this  somewhat 
ambiguous  exhibition  of  their  feelings. 

"  He  's  been  at  the  Raleigh  Tavern,  making  love  to  her  for 
a  month,"  continues  the  narrator. 

"  At  the  tavern  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  town  here." 

"  Did  anyone  ever !  "  says  the  lady  of  uncertain  age. 

"  Never !  never !  "  chime  in  the  virtuous  little  damsels,  shak 
ing  their  heads  solemnly. 

"  He  has  left  his  family,"  the  gentleman  in  the  long  waistcoat 
goes  on,  indignantly,  "  and  they  are  dying  of  grief." 

"  Oh,  can  it  be  !  " 

"  Certainly,  madam.    Why  are  they  not  here  to-night  ?  " 

"  Very  true." 

"  Why  is  Clare  Lee,  the  victim  of  his  insincerity,  away, 
pray  tell  me!  They  are  not  here  —  they  are  not  coming, 
madam." 

At  the  same  moment,  the  usher  announces  the  squire, 
Miss  Alethea,  and  Miss  Clare  Lee  —  Master  Willie  and  Kate 
being  too  small  to  be  seen,  which  the  squire  had  warned  them 
of.  The  squire  is  as  bluff  as  ever,  and  makes  his  salutation  to 
his  Excellency  with  great  cordiality  —  Clare  is  pale  and  absent, 
presenting  thus  a  singular  contrast  to  Henrietta,  who  enters 
a  moment  afterwards,  brilliant,  imposing,  and  smiling,  like  a 
queen  receiving  the  homage  of  the  nobility  around  her  throne. 
She  sweeps  on,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  honest  Jack  Hamilton, 
and  the  party  are  swallowed  in  the  crowd. 


JOHN   ESTEN   COOKE  143 

Let  us  return  to  the  group,  whose  conversation  the  new 
arrivals  had  interrupted. 

"  Well,  I  was  mistaken,"  says  the  gentleman  in  the  long 
waistcoat,  "  but  anyone  may  see  that  Clare  Lee  is  dying 
slowly ! " 

At  which  affecting  observation  the  young  ladies  sigh  and 
shake  their  heads. 

"  And  just  think  what  that  man  has  thrown  this  divine  crea 
ture  away  for,"  continues  the  censor  morum  \  "  for  a  common 
actress !  —  an  ordinary  playing  girl,  tolerably  pretty  she  may 
be,  but  vastly  overrated  —  a  mere  thing  of  stage  paint  and 
pearl  powder,  strutting  through  her  parts  and  ranting  like  an 
Amazon ! " 

"  I  think  her  quite  pretty,"  says  Laura,  "  but  it  is  too  bad." 

"  Dreadful ! " 

"  Awful ! " 

"  Horrible ! " 

"  Shocking !  " 

These  are  some  of  the  comments  on  Mr.  Effingham's  con 
duct,  from  the  elegant  little  dames. 

"  He  is  ashamed  to  show  himself  anywhere,"  continues  the 
gentleman  in  the  long  waistcoat,  "  and  only  yesterday  met  me 
on  the  street  and,  in  passing,  turned  away  his  head,  plainly 
afraid  that  I  would  not  speak  in  return  had  he  addressed 
me!" 

At  which  words  the  gentlemen  are  observed  to  smile  — 
knowing  as  they  do  something  of  Mr.  Champ  Effingham's 
personal  character  and  habits. 

"  He  actually  was  afraid  to  look  at  me,"  says  the  censor, 
"  and  I  am  told  keeps  his  room  all  day  or  passes  his  time 
in  the  society  of  that  Circe,  yes,  that  siren  who  is  only  too 
fond  of  him,  I  am  afraid  —  and  I  predict  will  make  him  marry 
her  at  last." 


144     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

The  ladies  sigh  and  agitate  their  fans  with  diamond-sparkling 
hands.  They  feel  themselves  very  far  above  this  shameless 
creature  attempting  to  catch — as  we  now  say — Mr.  Effingham. 
They  pity  her,  for  such  a  thing  never  has  occurred  to  them  — 
no  gentleman  has  ever  been  attractive  enough  for  them  to  have 
designs  upon  his  heart.  And  so  they  pity  and  despise  Beatrice 
for  wishing  to  run  away  with  her  admirer. 

"  He  is  heartily  ashamed  of  his  infatuation,  and  I  saw 
him  last  night  in  the  theater,  positively  afraid  to  look  at  the 
audience  —  but  staring  all  the  time  at  her,"  continues  the 
small  gentleman. 

"  But  that  is  easy  to  understand,  as  he  is  in  love,"  says 
Myrtilla,  with  a  strong  inclination  to  take  the  part  of  the 
reprobate  against  his  enemy. 

"  No,  no,  madam,"  exclaims  the  censor,  "  he  was  really 
ashamed  to  look  at  the  people,  and  took  not  the  least  notice 
of  their  frowns :  he  does  not  visit  anywhere ;  he  knows  he 
would  not  be  received  —  he  is  afraid  to  show  his  face." 

It  seemed  that  the  gentleman  in  the  long  waistcoat  was 
doomed  to  have  all  his  prophecies  falsified ;  for  at  that  moment, 
the  usher  announced  in  a  loud  voice,  which  attracted  the  atten 
tion  of  the  whole  company : 

"  Mr.  Effingham  and  Miss  Hallam  !  " 

Mr.  Effingham  entered  under  the  full  light  of  the  central 
chandelier,  with  Beatrice  on  his  arm.  He  carried  his  head 
proudly  erect,  his  eye  was  clear  and  steady,  his  lip  calm  and 
only  slightly  sarcastic ;  his  whole  carriage  displayed  perfect  and 
unaffected  self-possession.  The  thousand  eyes  bent  on  him 
vainly  sought  in  his  eyes,  or  lips,  anything  going  to  show  that 
he  felt  conscious  of  the  dreadful,  the  awful,  social  enormity 
which  he  was  committing. 

Mr.  Effingham  was  dressed  with  extraordinary  richness.  He 
was  always  elegant  in  his  costume ;  on  that  night  he  was 


»  JOHN   ESTEN    COOKE  145 

splendid.  His  coat  of  rich  cut  velvet  was  covered  with  em 
broidery  and  sparkled  with  a  myriad  of  chased-gold  buttons ; 
his  lace  ruffles  at  breast  and  wrist  were  point-de-Venise,  his 
fingers  were  brilliant  with  rings,  and  his  powdered  hair  waved 
from  his  clear,  pale  temples  like  a  stream  of  silver  dust  He 
looked  like  a  courtier  of  the  days  of  Louis  XIV,  dressed  for 
a  royal  reception. 

And  how  did  Beatrice  compare  with  this  brilliant  star  of 
fashion  —  this  thunderbolt  of  war  and  prince  of  modern  wits, 
as  the  muse  in  powdered  hair  and  ruffles  had  characterized 
him  ?  Poor  Beatrice  was  quite  eclipsed  by  her  cavalier.  Her 
simple,  unassuming  dress  of  pearl  color,  looped  back  with  plain 
ribbon  and  without  a  single  flower  or  any  ornament  whatever, 
looked  strangely  out  of  place  thrown  in  contrast  with  the  bril 
liant  silks  and  velvets  and  gold  buttons  and  diamonds  of  her 
companion ;  her  modest,  tender  face  and  drooping  head,  with 
its  unpretending  coiffure,  looked  quite  insignificant  beside  the 
bold,  defiant  countenance  of  Mr.  Effingham,  which  returned 
look  for  look  and  gaze  for  gaze,  with  an  insulting  nonchalance 
and  easy  hauteur.  We  know  how  reluctantly  Beatrice  had  come 
thither  —  rather  how  bitter  a  trial  it  was  to  her  —  and  we  may 
understand  why  she  looked  pale  and  troubled  and — spite  of  the 
fact  that  she  had  just  encountered  the  gaze  of  a  curious  and 
laughing  audience  without  any  emotion  —  now  felt  her  spirit 
die  within  her.  It  was  not  because  she  shrunk  from  comment 
half  so  much  as  from  the  fact  that  each  moment  she  expected 
to  see  opposite  to  her  the  cold,  pale  face  and  sick,  reproachful 
eyes  of  Clare  Lee  —  of  Clare,  who  had  thrown  aside  the  preju 
dices  of  class,  even  forgot  the  jealousy  of  a  wronged  and 
wretched  rival,  to  press  in  her  arms  the  rival  who  had  made 
all  her  woe,  and  that  rival  a  common  actress.  It  was  the  dread 
of  her  eye  which  made  poor  Beatrice  tremble  —  this  alone 
made  her  lip  quiver  and  her  brow  droop. 


146     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

His  excellency  Governor  Fauquier  came  forward  to  welcome 
his  guests,  but  started  at  the  sight  of  Beatrice,  and  almost 
uttered  an  exclamation.  For  a  moment  he  was  staggered 
and  said  nothing.  This  soon  passed,  however,  and  by  the  time 
Mr.  Effingham  had  accomplished  his  easy  bow,  the  Governor  was 
himself  again  and,  like  the  elegant  gentleman  he  was,  made 
a  low  inclination  before  Beatrice.  Then  he  made  a  pleasant 
allusion  to  the  weather  —  that  much-abused  subject,  which  has 
extricated  so  many  perishing  conversations  —  and  so,  smiling 
agreeably,  passed  on. 

Mr.  Effingham  advanced  through  the  opening,  on  each  side 
of  which  extended  a  row  of  brilliant  forms,  sparkling  with  lace 
and  jewels,  without  any  apparent  consciousness  that  he  and  his 
companion  were  the  observed  of  all  observers  —  without  being 
conscious,  one  would  have  said,  of  those  murmured  comments 
which  greeted  on  every  side  the  strange  and  novel  scene.  His 
manner  to  Beatrice,  as  he  bent  down  to  speak  to  her,  was  full 
of  respectful  and  chivalric  feeling ;  his  eye  was  soft,  his  lip 
smiling;  the  highest  lady  of  the  land  might  well  have  felt  an 
emotion  of  pleasure  in  so  elegant  and  noble  an  exhibition  of 
regard.  And  this  was  not  affected  by  Mr.  Effingham.  By  no 
means.  We  have  failed  to  convey  a  truthful  impression  of  this 
young  gentleman's  character  if  the  reader  has  not,  before  this 
time,  perceived  that  with  all  his  woeful  faults  and  failings 
Mr.  Champ  Effingham  had  much  in  his  character  of  the  bold  gen 
tleman  —  the  ancient  knight.  With  those  thousand  satirical  or 
scornful  eyes  bent  on  her,  Beatrice  was  dearer  to  him  than  she 
had  ever  been  before.  Those  elegant  ladies  and  gallant  gentle 
men  were  saying  with  disdain,  "  a  common  actress  I  "  Well,  he 
would  espouse  the  cause  of  that  girl  they  scorned  against  them 
all  and  treat  her  like  a  queen !  Never  had  she  had  more  com 
plete  possession  of  his  heart ;  never  had  his  heart  thrilled  so 
deliciously  at  the  contact  of  her  hand,  resting  upon  his  arm. 


JOHN   ESTEN   COOKE  147 

As  we  have  said,  all  drew  back  from  the  newcomers,  and 
they  entered  through  an  open  space,  like  a  king  leading  in  his 
queen.  Mr.  Effingham  looked  round  with  a  cool  and  easy 
smile,  and  led  the  young  girl  to  a  seat  near  some  elderly 
dowagers  in  turbans  and  diamonds,  who  had  enthroned  them 
selves  in  state  to  watch  their  daughters  and  see  that  those 
inexperienced  creatures  did  not  give  too  much  encouragement 
to  ineligible  personages.  As  Beatrice  sank  into  one  of  the  red 
damask  chairs,  the  surrounding  chairs  suddenly  retreated  on 
their  rollers,  and  the  turbans  agitated  themselves  indignantly. 
Mr.  Effingham  smiled,  with  his  easy,  mocking  expression,  and 
observing  that  one  of  the  diamond-decorated  dowagers  had 
dropped  her  fan,  picked  it  up  and  presented  it  to  her  with  a 
bow.  The  indignant  lady  turned  away  her  head  with  a  frown. 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  politely,  "  I  was  mistaken." 

And  fanning  himself  for  a  moment  negligently,  he  placed  the 
richly  feathered  instrument  in  the  hand  of  Beatrice. 

"  My  fan,  if  you  please,  sir,"  said  the  owner,  suddenly 
flushing  with  indignant  fire. 

"  Your  fan,  madam  ? "  asked  Mr.  Effingham,  with  polite 
surprise. 

"  Yes,  sir !  you  picked  it  up,  sir !  " 

"  A  thousand  pardons ! "  returned  the  young  gentleman, 
with  a  courteous  smile  ;  "  did  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir !  that  is  it,  sir  !    In  the  hands  of  that  — ." 

"  Oh,  I  understand,"  returned  Mr.  Effingham ;  and  with 
a  low  inclination  to  Beatrice,  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand, 
"  Will  you  permit  me  ?  " 

The  fan  was  restored  by  the  young  girl,  just  as  she  had 
taken  it  —  unconsciously,  and  the  dowager  received  it  with 
the  tips  of  her  fingers,  as  if  it  had  been  contaminated.  At  the 
same  moment  the  band  struck  up  a  minuet,  and  two  couples 
began  to  dance.  .  .  . 


148     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"  Come ! "  said  he  to  Beatrice ;  and  taking  her  hand,  he 
raised  her,  and  led  her  forward. 

"  Not  so  fast,"  he  said,  with  a  gesture  of  his  hand,  to  the 
musicians ;  "  I  cannot  dance  a  minuet  to  a  gavotte  tune." 

And  he  entered  into  the  broad,  open  space  with  Beatrice  the 
mark  of  a  thousand  eyes.  .  .  . 

The  entrance  of  Mr.  Effingham  into  the  open  space,  to 
dance  the  second  minuet  of  the  evening,  had  caused  an  awful 
sensation.  As  he  glided  through  the  stately  dance  to  the  slow- 
rolling  music,  bowing  profoundly,  with  his  tender,  lordly  smile, 
touching  the  young  girl's  hand  with  chivalric  respect,  pressing 
his  cocked  hat  to  his  heart  at  each  inclination  of  his  handsome 
and  brilliant  head,  all  eyes  had  been  bent  upon  him,  all  tongues 
busy  with  him.  And  these  eyes  and  tongues  had  taken  equal 
note  of  Beatrice.  The  young  girl  moved  through  the  old  stately 
dance  with  that  exquisite  grace  and  ease  with  which  she  per 
formed  every  evolution,  and  her  tender,  agitated  face,  as  we 
have  seen,  tempered  the  wrath  of  many  an  indignant  damsel. 
After  the  first  burst  of  surprise  and  anger,  the  gentlemen  too 
began  to  take  the  part  —  as  ^Virginia  ^entlemen,  always  have 
done  and  always  will  do  —  of  the  lonely  girl  environed  by  so 
many  hostile  eyes  and  slighting  comments.  They  forgot  the 
prepossessions  of  rank,  the  prejudices  of  class  —  no  longer 
remembered  thaFThe  young  actress  occupied  "upon  the  floor 
a  position  to  which  she  was  not  entitled ;  they  only  saw  a 
woman  who  had  all  the  rest  against  her,  and  their  sym 
pathy  was  nearly  powerful  enough  to  make  them  lose  sight 
of  Mr.  Efnngham's  defiance. 

A  murmur  rose  as  the  music  stopped,  and  he  led  her  to  a 
seat ;  and  then  a  species  of  undulation  in  the  crowd,  near  the 
entrance  into  the  next  room,  attracted  attention.  Mr.  Effingham 
had  his  back  turned,  however,  and  did  not  observe  this  incident. 
He  was  talking  to  Beatrice  in  a  low  tone. 


JOHN   ESTEN    COOKE  149 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  with  his  calm,  nonchalant  voice  —  "  you 
see,  Beatrice,  that  this  superb  society,  which  you  fancied  you 
would  find  yourself  so  much  out  of  place  in,  is  not  so  very 
extraordinary  after  all.  I  think  that  I  hazard  nothing  in  saying 
that  the  second  minuet  was  better  than  the  first ;  you  are,  in 
deed,  far  more  beautiful  than  that  little  dame  whose  ancestors, 
I  believe,  came  over  with  the  conqueror  —  Captain  Smith." 

And  his  cynical  smile  grew  soft  as  he  gazed  on  the  tender, 
anxious  face. 

"It  was  not  so  dreadful  an  ordeal,"  he  added,  "  though  I 
must  say  we  were  the  subject  of  much  curiosity.  I  observed 
a  group  criticizing  me,  which  pleased  me.  There  was  a  fiery 
young  gentleman  in  a  long  waistcoat,  whom  I  offended  by  not 
returning  his  bow  some  months  since  —  and  I  believe  he  was 
the  orator  of  the  occasion." 

With  which  words,  Mr.  Effingham's  lip  curled. 

"  See !  the  very  same  group  —  everybody,  in  fact,  is  gazing 
at  us.  Let  them  !  you  are  lovelier  than  them  all." 

And  Mr.  Effingham  raised  his  head  proudly  and  looked 
around  like  an  emperor.  But  Beatrice  felt  her  heart  die  within 
her.  That  minuet  had  exhausted  her  strength ;  each  moment 
she  expected  to  see  the  pale  cold  face  of  Clare  looking  at  her. 
Mr.  Effingham  observed  how  faint  she  was,  and  leaning  over 
took  a  smelling  bottle  from  the  hand  of  the  old  dowager  who 
had  dropped  the  fan  —  bowing  and  smiling. 

He  presented  it  to  Beatrice,  but  she  put  it  away  with  the 
back  of  her  hand,  whereupon  Mr.  Effingham,  with  a  second 
bow,  restored  it  to  the  dowager,  who,  aghast  at  his  impudence, 
beaten  by  his  superior  coolness,  and  overwhelmed  with  rage, 
took  it  without  knowing  what  she  did.  Mr.  Effingham  there 
upon  turned,  smiling,  to  Beatrice  again : 

"  There  seems  to  be  something  going  on  yonder,"  he  said, 
leaning  on  her  chair,  and  directing  the  young  girl's  attention 


150     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN   SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

to  the  flashing  waves  of  the  crowd,  which  moved  to  and  fro 
like  foaming  billows,  in  the  light  of  the  brilliant  chandeliers. 
Beatrice  felt  an  indefinable  and  vague  fear  take  possession  of 
her  heart.  At  the  same  moment,  Master  Willie  came  pushing 
and  elbowing  through  the  crowd. 

"  Cousin  Clare  is  sick  I  "  he  said ;  "  you  'd  better  go  and  see 
her,  brother  Champ.  She  liked  to  fainted  just  now !  " 

Beatrice  understood  all. 

"  Oh,  sir  !  let  me  go  !  "  she  cried,  "  go  out  with  me  !  I  shall 
die  here  !  —  oh,  I  cannot  —  that  dance  nearly  killed  me  —  and 
now  !  —  Oh,  sir,  have  pity,  give  me  your  arm  !  " 

And  rising  with  a  hurried  movement,  she  placed  her  hand  on 
Mr.  Effingham's  arm.  That  gentleman  smiled  bitterly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  this  is  the  tragedy  after  the  comedy !  I 
understand  this  fainting." 

"  Oh,  sir,  have  pity  —  I  must  go  !  "  cried  Beatrice,  "  I  will 
go  alone !  " 

Mr.  Effingham  held  her  back  and  hesitated.    At  last  he  said, 

"  Well,  madam  —  as  you  please  —  I  have  had  a  pleasant 
minuet  —  I  will  go." 

And  with  the  same  cold,  defiant  ease,  he  led  the  young  girl 
across  the  room  and  issued  forth  into  the  open  air. 

[When  Effingham  is  subsequently  rejected  most  positively  by 
Beatrice  Hallam,  he  becomes  desperate  and  tries  to  kidnap  her. 
While  he  is  carrying  her  away  in  a  sailboat  down  the  James 
River,  Charles  Waters  rescues  her,  and  she  eventually  becomes 
his  wife.1] 

1  Since  Book  II  of  "The  Virginia  Comedians"  carries  on  virtually  an  inde 
pendent  story,  it  has  not  been  deemed  necessary  to  extend  the  summary  to 
include  these  further  incidents. 


HUMORISTS 


AUGUSTUS  BALDWIN  LONGSTREET 

[Augustus  Baldwin  Longstreet  was  born  in  Augusta,  Georgia,  in 
1790.  He  graduated  at  Yale  in  1813  and  practiced  law  in  Georgia, 
becoming  a  district  judge  in  1822.  In  addition  to  the  practice  of 
law,  he  did  editorial  work  in  Augusta,  where  he  established  the 
Sentinel.  In  1838  he  became  a  Methodist  minister,  and  was  there 
after  largely  connected  with  educational  institutions,  being  in  turn 
president  of  Emory  College,  Georgia,  of  Centenary  College,  Louisiana, 
of  the  University  of  Mississippi,  and  of  South  Carolina  College. 
He  died  in  Oxford,  Mississippi,  in  1870.  His  fame  as  a  writer  rests 
upon  a  single  book,  "  Georgia  Scenes,"  consisting  of  realistic 
sketches  of  Georgia  country  life,  written  originally  as  contributions 
to  newspapers  and  later  gathered  into  book  form.] 


THE  HORSE  SWAP 

During  the  session  of  the  Supreme  Court,  in  the  village  of 
— ,  about  three  weeks  ago,  when  a  number  of  people  were 


collected  in  the  principal  street  of  the  village,  I  observed  a 
young  man  riding  up  and  down  the  street,  as  I  supposed,  in  a 
violent  passion.  He  galloped  this  way,  then  that,  and  then  the 
other;  spurred  his  horse  to  one  group  of  citizens,  then  to 
another;  then  dashed  off  at  half  speed,  as  if  fleeing  from 
danger;  and,  suddenly  checking  his  horse,  returned  first  in  a 
pace,  then  in  a  trot,  and  then  in  a  canter.  While  he  was  per 
forming  these  various  evolutions,  he  cursed,  swore,  whooped, 
screamed,  and  tossed  himself  in  every  attitude  which  man  could 
assume  on  horseback.  In  short,  he  cavorted  most  magnanimously 


152     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

(a  term  which,  in  our  tongue,  expresses  all  that  I  have  described, 
and  a  little  more),  and  seemed  to  be  setting  all  creation  at 
defiance.  As  I  like  to  see  all  that  is  passing,  I  determined  to 
take  a  position  a  little  nearer  to  him,  and  to  ascertain,  if  possible, 
what  it  was  that  affected  him  so  sensibly.  Accordingly,  I 
approached  a  crowd  before  which  he  had  stopped  for  a  moment, 


BLOSSOM  AND  HIS  HORSE,   BULLET 
Reproduction  of  one  of  the  original  illustrations  of  "  Georgia  Scenes  " 

and  examined  it  with  the  strictest  scrutiny.  But  I  could  see 
nothing  in  it  that  seemed  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
cavorter.  Every  man  appeared  to  be  in  good  humor,  and  all 
minding  their  own  business.  Not  one  so  much  as  noticed  the 
principal  figure.  Still  he  went  on.  After  a  semicolon  pause, 
which  my  appearance  seemed  to  produce  (for  he  eyed  me 
closely  as  I  approached),  he  fetched  a  whoop  and  swore  that  he 


AUGUSTUS   BALDWIN   LONGSTREET  153 

could  outswap  any  live  man,  woman,  or  child  that  ever  walked 
these  hills,  or  that  ever  straddled  horseflesh  since  the  days  of 
old  daddy  Adam.  "  Stranger,"  said  he  to  me,  "  did  you  ever 
see  the  Yallow  Blossom  from  Jasper  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  but  I  have  often  heard  of  him."       . 

"  I'm  the  boy,"  continued  he ;  "  perhaps  a  leetle,  jist  a  leetle, 
of  the  best  man  at  a  horse  swap  that  ever  trod  shoe  leather."' 

I  began  to  feel  my  situation  a  little  awkward,  wrhen  I  was 
relieved  by  a  man  somewhat  advanced  in  years,  who  stepped 
up  and  began  to  survey  the  Yallow  Blossom's  horse  with  much 
apparent  interest.  This  drew  the  rider's  attention,  and  he 
turned  the  conversation  from  me  to  the  stranger. 

"  Well,  my  old  coon,"  said  he,  "  do  you  want  to  swap 
hosses  ? " 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  stranger;  "  I  believe  I've 
got  a  beast  I  'd  trade  with  you  for  that  one,  if  you  like  him." 

"  Well,  fetch  up  your  nag,  my  old  cock ;  you're  jist, the  lark 
I  wanted  to  get  hold  of.  I  am  perhaps  a  leetle,  jist  a  leetle,  of 
the  best  man  at  a  horse  swap  that  ever  stole  cracklins  out  of  his 
mammy's  fat  gourd.  Where  's  your  hoss  ?  " 

"  I  '11  bring  him  presently,  but  I  want  to  examine  your  horse 
a  little." 

"  Oh !  look  at  him,"  said  the  Blossom,  alighting  and  hitting 
him  a  cut;  "look  at  him.  He's  the  best  piece  of  Siossftesh  in 
the  thirteen  united  univarsal  worlds.  There  's  no  sort  o'  mistake 
in  little  Bullet.  He  can  pick  up  miles  on  his  feet  and  fling  'em 
behind  him  as  fast  as  the  next  man's  hoss,  I  don't  care  where 
he  comes  from.  And  he  can  keep  at  it  as  long  as  the  sun  can 
shine  without  resting." 

During  this  harangue  little  Bullet  looked  as  if  he  understood 
it  all,  believed  it,  and  was  ready  at  any  moment  to  verify  it.  He 
was  a  horse  of  goodly  countenance,  rather  expressive  of  vigi 
lance  than  fire,  though  an  unnatural  appearance  of  fierceness 


154     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

was  thrown  into  it  by  the  loss  of  his  ears,  which  had  been 
cropped  pretty  close  to  his  head.  Nature  had  done  but  little 
for  Bullet's  head  and  neck,  but  he  managed,  in  a  great  measure, 
to  hide  their  defects  by  bowing  perpetually.  He  had  obviously 
suffered  severely  for  corn,  but  if  his  ribs  and  hip  bones  had  not 
disclosed  the  fact,  he  never  would  have  done  it,  for  he  was  in 
all  respects  as  cheerful  and  happy  as  if  he  commanded  all  the 
corn  cribs  and  fodder  stacks  in  Georgia.  His  height  was  about 
twelve  hands,  but  as  his  shape  partook  somewhat  of  that  of 
the  giraffe,  his  haunches  stood  much  lower.  They  were  short, 
straight,  peaked,  and  concave.  Bullet's  tail,  however,  made 
amends  for  all  his  defects.  All  that  the  artist  could  do  to 
beautify  it  had  been  done,  and  all  that  horse  could  do  to  com 
pliment  the  artist,  Bullet  did.  His  tail  was  nicked  in  superior 
style  and  exhibited  the  line  of  beauty  in  so  many  directions 
that  it  could  not  fail  to  hit  the  most  fastidious  taste  in  some  of 
them.  From  the  root  it  drooped  into  a  graceful  festoon,  then 
rose  in  a  handsome  curve,  then  resumed  its  first  direction,  and 
then  mounted  suddenly  upward  like  a  cypress  knee  to  a  per 
pendicular  of  about  two  and  a  half  inches.  The  whole  had  a 
careless  and  bewitching  inclination  to  the  right.  Bullet  obviously 
knew  where  his  beauty  lay  and  took  all  occasions  to  display  it 
to  the  best  advantage.  If  a  stick  cracked,  or  if  anyone  moved 
suddenly  about  him,  or  coughed,  or  hawked,  or  spoke  a  little 
louder  than  common,  up  went  Bullet's  tail  like  lightning,  and  if 
the  going  up  did  not  please,  the  coming  down  must  of  necessity, 
for  it  was  as  different  from  the  other  movement  as  was  its 
direction.  The  first  was  a  bold  and  rapid  flight  upward,  usually 
to  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees.  In  this  position  he  kept  his 
interesting  appendage  until  he  satisfied  himself  that  nothing  in 
particular  was  to  be  done,  when  he  commenced  dropping  it  by 
half  inches,  in  second  beats,  then  in  triple  time,  then  faster  and 
shorter,  and  faster  and  shorter  still,  until  it  finally  died  away 


AUGUSTUS   BALDWIN    LONGSTREET  155 

imperceptibly  into  its  natural  position.  If  I  might  compare 
sights  to  sounds  I  should  say  its  settling  was  more  like  the  note 
of  a  locust  than  anything  else  in  nature. 

Either  from  native  sprightliness  of  disposition,  from  uncon 
trollable  activity,  or  from  an  unconquerable  habit  of  removing 
flies  by  the  stamping  of  the  feet,  Bullet  never  stood  still,  but 
always  kept  up  a  gentle  fly-scaring  movement  of  his  limbs, 
which  was  peculiarly  interesting. 

"  I  tell  you,  man,"  proceeded  the  Yellow  Blossom,  "  he  's 
the  best  live  hoss  that  ever  trod  the  grit  of  Georgia.  Bob 
Smart  knows  the  hoss.  Come  here,  Bob,  and  mount  this  hoss, 
and  show  Bullet's  motions."  Here  Bullet  bristled  up,  and 
looked  as  if  he  had  been  hunting  for  Bob  all  day  long  and 
had  just  found  him.  Bob  sprang  on  his  back.  "  Boo-oo-oo ! " 
said  Bob,  with  a  fluttering  noise  of  the  lips ;  and  away  went 
Bullet,  as  if  in  a  quarter  race,  with  all  his  beauties  spread  in 
handsome  style. 

"  Now  fetch  him  back,"  said  Blossom.  Bullet  turned  and 
came  in  pretty  much  as  he  went  out. 

"  Now  trot  him  by."  Bullet  reduced  his  tail  to  "  customary," 
sidled  to  the  right  and  left  airily,  and  exhibited  at  least  three 
varieties  of  trot  in  the  short  space  of  fifty  yards. 

"  Make  him  pace ! "  Bob  commenced  twitching  the  bridle 
and  kicking  at  the  same  time.  These  inconsistent  movements 
obviously  (and  most  naturally)  disconcerted  Bullet ;  for  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  learn,  from  them,  whether  he  was  to 
proceed  or  stand  still.  He  started  to  trot  and  was  told  that 
wouldn't  do.  He  attempted  a  canter  and  was  checked  again. 
He  stopped  and  was  urged  to  go  on.  Bullet  now  rushed  into 
the  wild  field  of  experiment  and  struck  out  a  gait  of  his  own 
that  completely  turned  the  tables  upon  his  rider  and  certainly 
deserved  a  patent.  It  seemed  to  have  derived  its  elements 
from  the  jig,  the  minuet,  and  the  cotillon.  If  it  was  not  a  pace, 


156     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

it  certainly  had  pace  in  it,  and  no  man  could  venture  to  call  it 
anything  else ;  so  it  passed  off  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  owner. 

"  Walk  him ! "  Bullet  was  now  at  home  again,  and  he  walked 
as  if  money  was  staked  on  him. 

The  stranger,  whose  name,  I  afterwards  learned,  was  Peter 
Ketch,  having  examined  Bullet  to  his  heart's  content,  ordered 
his  son  Neddy  to  go  and  bring  up  Kit.  Neddy  soon  appeared 
upon  Kit,  a  well-formed  sorrel  of  the  middle  size  and  in  good 
order.  His  tout  ensemble  threw  Bullet  entirely  in  the  shade, 
though  a  glance  was  sufficient  to  satisfy  anyone  that  Bullet 
had  decided  advantage  of  him  in  point  of  intellect. 

"  Why,  man,"  said  Blossom,  "  do  you  bring  such  a  hoss 
as  that  to  trade  for  Bullet?  Oh,  I  see  you're  no  notion  of 
trading." 

"  Ride  him  off,  Neddy  !  "  said  Peter.  Kit  put  off  at  a  hand 
some  lope. 

"  Trot  him  back ! "  Kit  came  in  at  a  long  sweeping  trot, 
and  stopped  suddenly  at  the  crowd. 

"Well,"  said  Blossom,  "let  me  look  at  him;  maybe  he'll 
do  to  plow." 

"  Examine  him  !  "  said  Peter,  taking  hold  of  the  bridle  close 
to  the  mouth,  "  he 's  nothing  but  a  tacky.  He  ain't  as  pretty  a 
horse  as  Bullet,  I  know,  but  he'll  do.  Start  'em  together  for 
a  hundred  and  fifty  mile\  and  if  Kit  an't  twenty  mile  ahead 
of  him  at  the  coming  out,  any  man  may  take  Kit  for  nothing. 
But  he's  a  monstrous  mean  horse,  gentlemen,  any  man  may 
see  that  He's  the  scariest  horse,  too,  you  ever  saw.  He 
won't  do  to  hunt  on,  nohow.  Stranger,  will  you  let  Neddy 
have  your  rifle  to  shoot  off  him  ?  Lay  the  rifle  between  his 
ears,  Neddy,  and  shoot  at  the  blaze  in  that  stump.  Tell  me 
when  his  head  is  high  enough." 

Ned  fired  and  hit  the  blaze,  and  Kit  did  not  move  a  hair's 
breadth. 


AUGUSTUS  BALDWIN   LONGSTREET  157 

"  Neddy,  take  a  couple  of  sticks  and  beat  on  that  hogshead 
at  Kit's  tail." 

Ned  made  a  tremendous  rattling,  at  which  Bullet  took  fright, 
broke  his  bridle,  and  dashed  off  in  grand  style,  and  would  have 
stopped  all  farther  negotiations  by  going  home  in  disgust  had 
not  a  traveler  arrested  him  and  brought  him  back :  but  Kit 
did  not  move. 

''  I  tell  you,  gentlemen,''  continued  Peter,  "he's  the  scariest 
horse  you  ever  saw.  He  an't  as  gentle  as  Bullet,  but  he  won't 
do  any  harm  if  you  watch  him.  Shall  I  put  him  in  a  cart,  gig, 
or  wagon  for  you,  stranger  ?  He  '11  cut  the  same  capers  there 
he  does  here.  He's  a  monstrous  mean  horse." 

During  all  this  time  Blossom  was  examining  him  with  the 
nicest  scrutiny.  Having  examined  his  frame  and  limbs,  he 
now  looked  at  his  eyes. 

"  He's  got  a  curious  look  out  of  his  eyes,"  said  Blossom. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  said  Peter,  "  just  as  blind  as  a  bat.  Blind 
horses  always  have  clear  eyes.  Make  a  motion  at  his  eyes,  if 
you  please,  sir." 

Blossom  did  so,  and  Kit  threw  up  his  head  rather  as  if 
something  pricked  him  under  the  chin  than  as  if  fearing  a 
blow.  Blossom  repeated  the  experiment,  and  Kit  jerked  back 
in  considerable  astonishment. 

"  Stone  blind,  you  see,  gentlemen,"  proceeded  Peter ;  "  but 
he 's  just  as  good  to  travel  of  a  dark  night  as  if  he  had 
eyes." 

"  Blame  my  buttons,"  said  Blossom,  "  if  I  like  them  eyes." 

"  No,"  said  Peter,  "  nor  I  neither.  I  'd  rather  have  'em 
made  of  diamonds ;  but  they  '11  do,  if  they  don't  show  as  much 
white  as  Bullet's." 

"  Well,"  said  Blossom,  "  make  a  pass  at  me." 

"  No,"  said  Peter ;  "  you  made  the  banter,  now  make  your 
pass." 


1 58     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"  Well,  I'm  never  afraid  to  price  my  bosses.  You  must  give 
me  twenty-five  dollars  boot." 

"  Oh,  certainly ;  say  fifty,  and  my  saddle  and  bridle  in. 
Here,  Neddy,  my  son,  take  away  daddy's  horse." 

"Well,"  said  Blossom,  "I've  made  my  pass,  now  you 
make  yours." 

"I'm  for  short  talk  in  a  horse  swap  and  therefore  always 
tell  a  gentleman  at  once  what  I  mean  to  do.  You  must  give 
me  ten  dollars." 

Blossom  swore  absolutely,  roundly,  and  profanely  that  he 
never  would  give  boot. 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  "I  didn't  care  about  trading,  but  you 
cut  such  high  shines  that  I  thought  I'd  like  to  back  you  out, 
and  I've  done  it.  Gentlemen,  you  see  I've  brought  him  to 
a  hack." 

"  Come,  old  man,"  said  Blossom,  "  I  Ve  been  joking  with 
you.  I  begin  to  think  you  do  want  to  trade,  therefore  give  me 
five  dollars  and  take  Bullet.  I'd  rather  lose  ten  dollars  any 
time  than  not  make  a  trade,  though  I  hate  to  fling  away  a 
good  hoss." 

"  Well,"  said  Peter,  "  I  '11  be  as  clever  as  you  are ;  just  put 
the  five  dollars  on  Bullet's  back  and  hand  him  over,  it's  a 
trade." 

Blossom  swore  again,  as  roundly  as  before,  that  he  would 
not  give  boot ;  and,  said  he,  "  Bullet  wouldn't  hold  five  dollars 
on  his  back,  nohow.  But  as  I  bantered  you,  if  you  say  an 
even  swap,  here's  at  you." 

"  I  told  you,"  said  Peter,  "  I'd  be  as  clever  as  you,  there 
fore  here  goes  two  dollars  more,  just  for  trade  sake.  Give  me 
three  dollars  and  it's  a  bargain." 

Blossom  repeated  his  former  assertion ;  and  here  the  parties 
stood  for  a  long  time,  and  the  bystanders  (for  many  were 
now  collected)  began  to  taunt  both  parties.  After  some  time, 


AUGUSTUS   BALDWIN    LONGSTREET  159 

however,  it  was  pretty  unanimously  decided  that  the  old  man 
had  backed  Blossom  out. 

At  length  Blossom  swore  he  "  never  would  be  backed  out 
for  three  dollars  after  bantering  a  man,"  and  accordingly  they 
closed  the  trade. 

"  Now,"  said  Blossom,  as  he  handed  Peter  the  three  dollars, 
"  I'm  a  man  that  when  he  makes  a  bad  trade,  makes  the  most 
of  it  until  he  can  make  a  better.  I'm  for  no  rues  and  after 
claps." 

"  That 's  just  my  way,"  said  Peter ;  "  I  never  goes  to  law  to 
mend  my  bargains." 

"  Ah,  you  're  the  kind  of  boy  I  love  to  trade  with.  Here 's 
your  hoss,  old  man.  Take  the  saddle  and  bridle  off  him,  and 
I  '11  strip  yours ;  but  lift  up  the  blanket  easy  from  Bullet's  back, 
for  he's  a  mighty  tender-backed  hoss." 

The  old  man  removed  the  saddle,  but  the  blanket  stuck  fast. 
He  attempted  to  raise  it,  and  Bullet  bowed  himself,  switched 
his  tail,  danced  a  little,  and  gave  signs  of  biting. 

"  Don't  hurt  him,  old  man,"  said  Blossom,  archly ;  "  take  it 
off  easy.  I  am,  perhaps,  a  leetle  of  the  best  man  at  a  horse 
swap  that  ever  catched  a  coon." 

Peter  continued  to  pull  at  the  blanket  more  and  more  roughly, 
and  Bullet  became  more  and  more  cavortish,  insomuch  that 
when  the  blanket  came  off  he  had  reached  the  kicking  point  in 
good  earnest. 

The  removal  of  the  blanket  disclosed  a  sore  on  Bullet's  back 
bone  that  seemed  to  have  defied  all  medical  skill.  It  measured 
six  full  inches  in  length  and  four  in  breadth  and  had  as  many 
features  as  Bullet  had  motions.  My  heart  sickened  at  the  sight, 
and  I  felt  that  the  brute  who  had  been  riding  him  in  that 
situation  deserved  the  halter. 

The  prevailing  feeling,  however,  was  that  of  mirth.  The 
laugh  became  loud  and  general  at  the  old  man's  expense,  and 


160     SOUTHERN   LIFE   IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

rustic  witticisms  were  liberally  bestowed  upon  him  and  his  late 
purchase.  These  Blossom  continued  to  provoke  by  various 
remarks.  He  asked  the  old  man  "if  he  thought  Bullet  would 
let  five  dollars  lie  on  his  back."  He  declared  most  seriously 
that  he  had  owned  that  horse  three  months  and  had  never  dis 
covered  before  that  he  had  a  sore  back,  "or  he  never  should 
have  thought  of  trading  him,"  etc. 

The  old  man  bore  it  all  with  the  most  philosophic  composure. 
He  evinced  no  astonishment  at  his  late  discovery  and  made  no 
replies.  But  his  son  Neddy  had  not  disciplined  his  feelings 
quite  so  well.  His  eyes  opened  wider  and  wider  from  the  first 
to  the  last  pull  of  the  blanket,  and,  when  the  whole  sore  burst 
upon  his  view,  astonishment  and  fright  seemed  to  contend  for 
the  mastery  of  his  countenance.  As  the  blanket  disappeared, 
he  stuck  his  hands  in  his  breeches  pockets,  heaved  a  deep  sigh, 
and  lapsed  into  a  profound  revery,  from  which  he  was  only 
roused  by  the  cuts  at  his  father.  He  bore  them  as  long  as  he 
could,  and  when  he  could  contain  himself  no  longer  he  began, 
with  a  certain  wildness  of  expression  which  gave  a  peculiar 
interest  to  what  he  uttered :  "  His  back  's  mighty  bad  off,  but 
.  .  .  old  Kit's  both  blind  and  deef.  .  .  .  You  walk  him,  and  see 
if  he  eint.  His  eyes  don't  look  like  it ;  but  he  'd  jist  as  leve 
go  agin  the  house  with  you,  or  in  a  ditch,  as  anyhow.  Now 
you  go  try  him."  The  laugh  was  now  turned  on  Blossom;  and 
many  rushed  to  test  the  fidelity  of  the  little  boy's  report.  A  few 
experiments  established  its  truth  beyond  controversy. 

"  Neddy,"  said  the  old  man,  "  you  ought  n't  to  try  and  make 
people  discontented  with  their  things.  Stranger,  don't  mind 
what  the  little  boy  says.  If  you  can  only  get  Kit  rid  of  them 
little  failings,  you  '11  find  him  all  sorts  of  a  horse.  You  are  a 
leetle  the  best  man  at  a  horse  swap  that  ever  I  got  hold  of ; 
but  don't  fool  away  Kit.  Come,  Neddy,  my  son,  let 's  be 
moving ;  the  stranger  seems  to  be  getting  snappish." 


AUGUSTUS   BALDWIN   LONGSTREET  161 


THE  TURN  OUT 


In  the  good  old  days  of  fescues,  abisselfas,  and  anpersants, 
terms  which  used  to  be  familiar  in  this  country  during  the 
Revolutionary  War,  and  which  lingered  in  some  of  our  county 
schools  for  a  few  years  afterward,  I  visited  my  friend  Captain 
Griffin,  who  resided  about  seven  miles  to  the  eastward  of 
Wrightsborough,  then  in  Richmond,  but  now  in  Columbia 
County.  I  reached  the  captain's  hospitable  home  on  Easter, 
and  was  received  by  him  and  his  good  lady  with  a  Georgia 
welcome  of  1790.  It  was  warm  from  the  heart,  and  taught  me 
in  a  moment  that  the  obligations  of  the  visit  were  upon  their 
side,  not  mine.  Such  receptions  were  not  peculiar  at  that  time 
to  the  captain  and  his  family  ;  they  were  common  throughout 
the  state.  Where  are  they  now !  and  where  the  generous 
hospitalities  which  invariably  followed  them  !  I  see  them  occa 
sionally  at  the  contented  farmer's  door  and  at  his  festive  board, 
but  when  they  shall  have  taken  leave  of  these,  Georgia  will 
know  them  no  more. 

The  day  was  consumed  in  the  interchange  of  news  between 
the  captain  and  myself  (though,  I  confess,  it  might  have  been 
better  employed),  and  the  night  found  us  seated  round  a 
temporary  fire,  which  the  captain's  sons  had  kindled  up  for  the 
purpose  of  dyeing  eggs.  It  was  a  common  custom  of  those 
days  with  boys  to  dye  and  peck  eggs  on  Easter  Sunday  and  for 
a  few  days  afterward.  They  were  colored  according  to  the 
fancy  of  the  dyer  —  some  yellow,  some  green,  some  purple, 
and  some  with  a  variety  of  colors,  borrowed  from  a  piece  of 
calico.  They  were  not  unfrequently  beautified  with  a  taste  and 
skill  which  would  have  extorted  a  compliment  from  Hezekiah 
Niles,  if  he  had  seen  them  a  year  ago,  in  the  hands  of  the 
"  young  operatives,"  in  some  of  the  northern  manufactories. 
No  sooner  was  the  work  of  dyeing  finished,  than  our  young 


162     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

operatives  sallied  (orth  to  stake  the  whole  proceeds  of  their 
"  domestic  industry  "  upon  a  peck.  Egg  was  struck  against  egg, 
point  to  point,  and  the  egg  that  was  broken  was  given  up  as 
lost  to  the  owner  of  the  one  which  came  whole  from  the  shock. 
While  the  boys  were  busily  employed  in  the  manner  just 
mentioned,  the  captain's  youngest  son,  George,  gave  us  an 
anecdote  highly  descriptive  of  the  Yankee  and  Georgia  char 
acter,  even  in  their  buddings,  and  at  this  early  date.  "What 
you  think,  pa,"  said  he,  "  Zeph  Pettibone  went  and  got  his 
Uncle  Zach  to  turn  him  a  wooden  egg,  and  he  won  a  whole 
hatful  o'  eggs  from  all  us  boys  'fore  we  found  it  out ;  but 
when  we  found  it  out  maybe  John  Brown  didn't  smoke  him 
for  it,  and  took  away  all  his  eggs  and  give  'em  back  to  us 
boys ;  and  you  think  he  did  n't  go  then  and  git  a  guinea  egg, 
and  win  most  as  many  more,  and  John  Brown  would  o'  give  it 
to  him  agin  if  all  we  boys  had  n't  said  we  thought  it  was  fair. 

/   I  never  see  such  a  boy  as  that  Zeph  Pettibone  in  all  my  life. 

I    He  don't  mind  whipping  no  more  'an  nothing  at  all,  if  he  can 
win  eggs." 

This  anecdote,  however,  only  fell  in  by  accident,  for  there 
was  an  all-absorbing  subject  which  occupied  the  minds  of  the 
boys  during  the  whole  evening,  of  which  I  could  occasionally 
catch  distant  hints  in  undertones  and  whispers,  but  of  which  I 
could  make  nothing  until  they  were  afterward  explained  by  the 
captain  himself.  Such  as  "  I  '11  be  bound  Pete  Jones  and 
Bill  Smith  stretches  him."  "  By  Jockey,  soon  as  they  seize 
him  you  '11  see  me  down  upon  him  like  a  duck  upon  a  June 
bug."  "By  the  time  he  touches  the  ground  he'll  think  he's 
got  into  a  hornet's  nest,"  etc. 

"  The  boys,"  said  the  captain,  as  they  retired,  "  are  going  to 
turn  out  the  schoolmaster  to-morrow,  and  you  can  perceive 
they  think  of  nothing  else.  We  must  go  over  to  the  school- 
house  and  witness  the  contest,  in  order  to  prevent  injury  to 


AUGUSTUS   BALDWIN   LONGSTREET  163 

preceptor  or  pupils ;  for,  though  the  master  is  always,  upon 
such  occasions,  glad  to  be  turned  out,  and  only  struggles  long 
enough  to  present  his  patrons  a  fair  apology  for  giving  the 
children  a  holiday,  which  he  desires  as  much  as  they  do,  the 
boys  always  conceive  a  holiday  gained  by  a  '  turn  out '  as 
the  sole  achievement  of  their  valor ;  and,  in  their  zeal  to  dis 
tinguish  themselves  upon  such  memorable  occasions,  they  some 
times  become  too  rough,  provoke  the  master  to  wrath,  and  a 
very  serious  conflict  ensues.  To  prevent  these  consequences, 
to  bear  witness  that  the  master  was  forced  to  yield  before  he 
would  withhold  a  day  of  his  promised  labor  from  his  employers, 
and  to  act  as  a  mediator  between  him  and  the  boys  in  settling 
the  articles  of  peace,  I  always  attend ;  and  you  must  accom 
pany  me  to-morrow."  I  cheerfully  promised  to  do  so. 

The  captain  and  I  rose  before  the  sun,  but  the  boys  had 
risen  and  were  off  to  the  schoolhouse  before  the  dawn.  After 
an  early  breakfast,  hurried  by  Mrs.  G.  for  our  accommodation, 
my  host  and  myself  took  up  our  line  of  march  towards  the 
schoolhouse.  We  reached  it  about  half  an  hour  before  the 
master  arrived,  but  not  before  the  boys  had  completed  its  forti 
fications.  It  was  a  simple  log  pen,  about  twenty  feet  square,  ,*J 
with  a  doorway  cut  out  of  the  logs,  to  which  was  fitted  a  rude 
door,  made  of  clapboards,  and  swung  on  wooden  hinges.  The/  ^ 
roof  was  covered  with  clapboards  also,  and  retained  in  their 
places  by  heavy  logs  placed  on  them.  The  chimney  was  built 
of  logs,  diminishing  in  size  from  the  ground  to  the  top,  and 
overspread  inside  and  out  with  red-clay  mortar.  The  classic 
hut  occupied  a  lovely  spot,  overshadowed  by  majestic  hickories, 
towering  poplars,  and  strong-armed  oaks.  The  little  plain  on 
which  it  stood  was  terminated,  at  the  distance  of  about  fifty 
paces  from  its  door,  by  the  brow  of  a  hill,  which  descended 
rather  abruptly  to  a  noble  spring  that  gushed  joyously  forth 
from  among  the  roots  of  a  stately  beech  at  its  foot.  The  stream 


164     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

from  this  fountain  scarcely  burst  into  view  before  it  hid  itself 
beneath  the  dark  shade  of  a  field  of  cane  which  overspread  the 
dale  through  which  it  flowed  and  marked  its  windings  until  it 
turned  from  the  sight  among  vine-covered  hills,  at  a  distance 
far  beyond  that  to  which  the  eye  could  have  traced  it  without 
the  help  of  its  evergreen  belt.  A  remark  of  the  captain's,  as 
we  viewed  the  lovely  country  around  us,  will  give  the  reader 
my  apology  for  the  minuteness  of  the  foregoing  description. 
"  These  lands,"  said  he,  "  will  never  wear  out.  Where  they  lie 
level,  they  will  be  as  good  fifty  years  hence  as  they  are  now." 
Forty-two  years  afterward  I  visited  the  spot  on  which  he  stood 
when  he  made  the  remark.  The  sun  poured  his  whole  strength 
upon  the  bald  hill  which  once  supported  the  sequestered  school- 
house  ;  many  a  deep-washed  gully  met  at  a  sickly  bog  where 
gushed  the  limpid  fountain ;  a  dying  willow  rose  from  the  soil 
which  nourished  the  venerable  beech ;  flocks  wandered  among 
the  dwarf  pines,  and  cropped  a  scanty  meal  from  the  vale 
where  the  rich  cane  bowed  and  rustled  to  every  breeze,  and 
all  around  was  barren,  dreary,  and  cheerless.  But  to  return. 

As  I  before  remarked,  the  boys  had  strongly  fortified  the 
schoolhouse,  of  which  they  had  taken  possession.  The  door 
was  barricaded  with  logs,  which  I  should  have  supposed  would 
have  defied  the  combined  powers  of  the  whole  school.  The 
chimney  too  was  nearly  filled  with  logs  of  goodly  size,  and 
these  were  the  only  passways  to  the  interior.  I  concluded  if 
a  turn  out  was  all  that  was  necessary  to  decide  the  contest  in 
favor  of  the  boys,  they  had  already  gained  the  victory.  They 
had,  however,  not  as  much  confidence  in  their  outworks  as  I 
had,  and  therefore  had  armed  themselves  with  long  sticks  — 
not  for  the  purpose  of  using  them  upon  the  master  if  the  battle 
should  come  to  close  quarters,  for  this  was  considered  unlawful 
warfare,  but  for  the  purpose  of  guarding  their  works  from  his 
approaches,  which  it  was  considered  perfectly  lawful  to  protect 


AUGUSTUS   BALDWIN   LONGSTREET  165 

by  all  manner  of  jabs  and  punches  through  the  cracks.  From 
the  early  assembling  of  the  girls  it  was  very  obvious  that  they 
had  been  let  into  the  conspiracy,  though  they  took  no  part  in 
the  active  operations.  They  would,  however,  occasionally  drop 
a  word  of  encouragement  to  the  boys,  such  as  "I  wouldn't 
turn  out  the  master,  but  if  I  did  turn  him  out,  I'd  die  before 
I'd  give  up."  These  remarks  doubtless  had  an  emboldening 
effect  upon  "the  young  freeborns,"  as  Mrs.  Trollope  would  call 
them,  for  I  never  knew  thejTTforgign  nf  an)r  agp  "-hn  was  in 
different  to  the  smiles  and  praises  of  the  ladies  —  before  his 
marriage. 

At  length  Mr.  Michael  St.  John,  the  schoolmaster,  made  his 
appearance.  Though  some  of  the  girls  had  met  him  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  from  the  schoolhouse  and  told  him  all  that  had  hap 
pened,  he  gave  signs  of  sudden  astonishment  and  indignation 
when  he  advanced  to  the  door  and  was  assailed  by  a  whole 
platoon  of  sticks  from  the  cracks.  "  Why,  what  does  all  this 
mean  ? "  said  he,  as  he  approached  the  captain  and  myself, 
with  a  countenance  of  two  or  three  varying  expressions. 

"  Why,"  said  the  captain,  "  the  boys  have  turned  you  out, 
because  you  have  refused  to  give  them  an  Easter  holiday." 

"Oh,"  returned  Michael,  "that's  it,  is  it?  Well,  I'll  see 
whether  their  parents  are  to  pay  me  for  letting  their  children 
play  when  they  please."  So  saying,  he  advanced  to  the  school- 
house  and  demanded,  in  a  lofty  tone,  of  its  inmates  an  uncon 
ditional  surrender. 

"  Well,  give  us  holiday  then,"  said  twenty  little  urchins  within, 
"  and  we'll  let  you  in." 

"  Open  the  door  of  the  academy "  (Michael  would  allow 
nobody  to  call  it  a  schoolhouse)  —  "  Open  the  door  of  the 
academy  this  instant,"  said  Michael,  "  or  I  '11  break  it  down." 

"  Break  it  down,"  said  Pete  Jones  and  Bill  Smith,  "  and 
we  '11  break  you  down." 


1 66     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

During  this  colloquy  I  took  a  peep  into  the  fortress  to  see 
how  the  garrison  were  affected  by  the  parley.  The  little  ones 
were  obviously  panic-struck  at  the  first  words  of  command; 
but  their  fears  were  all  chased  away  by  the  bold,  determined 
reply  of  Pete  Jones  and  Bill  Smith,  and  they  raised  a  whoop 
of  defiance. 

Michael  now  walked  round  the  academy  three  times,  exam 
ining  all  its  weak  points  with  great  care.  He  then  paused, 
reflected  for  a  moment,  and  wheeled  off  suddenly  towards  the 
woods,  as  though  a  bright  thought  had  just  struck  him.  He 
passed  twenty  things  which  I  supposed  he  might  be  in  quest 
of,  such  as  huge  stones,  fence  rails,  portable  logs,  and  the  like, 
without  bestowing  the  least  attention  upon  them.  He  went  to 
one  old  log,  searched  it  thoroughly  ;  then  to  another ;  then  to  a 
hollow  stump,  peeped  into  it  with  great  care ;  then  to  a  hollow 
log,  into  which  he  looked  with  equal  caution,  and  so  on. 

"  What  is  he  after  ?  "  inquired  I. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  the  captain,  "  but  the  boys 
do.  Don't  you  notice  the  breathless  silence  which  prevails  in 
the  schoolhouse,  and  the  intense  anxiety  with  which  they  are 
eying  him  through  the  cracks  ? " 

At  this  moment  Michael  had  reached  a  little  excavation  at 
the  root  of  a  dogwood  and  was  in  the  act  of  putting  his  hand 
into  it,  when  a  voice  from  the  garrison  exclaimed,  with  most 
touching  pathos,  "  Lo'd  o'  messy,  he  's  found  my  eggs !  boys, 
let's  give  up." 

"  I  won't  give  up,"  was  the  reply  from  many  voices  at  once. 

"Rot  your  cowardly  skin,  Zeph  Pettibone,  you  wouldn't 
give  a  wooden  egg  for  all  the  holidays  in  the  world." 

If  these  replies  did  not  reconcile  Zephaniah  to  his  appre 
hended  loss,  it  at  least  silenced  his  complaints.  In  the  mean 
time  Michael  was  employed  in  relieving  Zeph's  storehouse  of 
its  provisions ;  and,  truly,  its  contents  told  well  for  Zeph's  skill 


AUGUSTUS   BALDWIN   LONGSTREET  167 

in  egg-pecking.  However,  Michael  took  out  the  eggs  with  great 
care  and  brought  them  within  a  few  paces  of  the  schoolhouse 
and  laid  them  down  with  equal  care  in  full  view  of  the  besieged. 
He  revisited  the  places  which  he  had  searched  and  to  which 
he  seemed  to  have  been  led  by  intuition,  for  from  nearly  all 
of  them  did  he  draw  eggs,  in  greater  or  less  numbers.  These 
he  treated  as  he  had  done  Zeph's,  keeping  each  pile  separate. 
Having  arranged  the  eggs  in  double  files  before  the  door,  he 
marched  between  them  with  an  air  of  triumph  and  once  more 
demanded  a  surrender,  under  pain  of  an  entire  destruction  of 
the  garrison's  provisions. 

"  Break  'em  just  as  quick  as  you  please,"  said  George  Griffin ; 
"  our  mothers  '11  give  us  a  plenty  more,  won't  they,  pa  ? " 

"  I  can  answer  for  yours,  my  son,"  said  the  captain ;  "  she 
would  rather  give  up  every  egg  upon  the  farm  than  see  you 
play  the  coward  or  traitor  to  save  your  property." 

Michael,  finding  that  he  could  make  no  impression  upon  the 
fears  or  the  avarice  of  the  boys,  determined  to  carry  their  forti 
fications  by  storm.  Accordingly  he  procured  a  heavy  fence  rail 
and  commenced  the  assault  upon  the  door.  It  soon  came  to 
pieces,  and  the  upper  logs  fell  out,  leaving  a  space  of  about 
three  feet  at  the  top.  Michael  boldly  entered  the  breach,  when, 
by  the  articles  of  war,  sticks  were  thrown  aside  as  no  longer 
lawful  weapons.  He  was  resolutely  met  on  the  half-demolished 
rampart  by  Peter  Jones  and  William  Smith,  supported  by  James 
Griffin.  These  were  the  three  largest  boys  in  the  school,  the 
first  about  sixteen  years  of  age,  the  second  about  fifteen,  and 
the  third  just  eleven.  Twice  was  Michael  repulsed  by  these 
young  champions,  but  the  third  effort  carried  him  fairly  into 
the  fortress.  Hostilities  now  ceased  for  awhile,  and  the  cap 
tain  and  I,  having  leveled  the  remaining  logs  at  the  door,  fol 
lowed  Michael  into  the  house.  A  large  three-inch  plank  (if  it 
deserve  that  name,  for  it  was  wrought  from  the  half  of  a  tree's 


l68     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

trunk  entirely  with  the  ax),  attached  to  the  logs  by  means  of 
wooden  pins,  served  the  whole  school  for  a  writing  desk.  At 
a  convenient  distance  below  it,  and  on  a  line  with  it,  stretched 
a  smooth  log  resting  upon  the  logs  of  the  house,  which  answered 
for  the  writers'  seat.  Michael  took  his  seat  upon  the  desk, 
placed  his  feet  on  the  seat,  and  was  sitting  very  composedly, 


MICHAEL  ST.  JOHN,  THE  SCHOOLMASTER,   EFFECTING  AN 
ENTRANCE  BY  STORM 

Reproduction  of  one  of  the  original  illustrations  of  "  Georgia  Scenes  " 

when,  with  a  simultaneous  movement,  Pete  and  Bill  seized 
each  a  leg,  and  marched  off  with  it  in  quick  time.  The  conse 
quence  is  obvious ;  Michael's  head  first  took  the  desk,  then  the 
seat,  and  finally  the  ground  (for  the  house  was  not  floored), 
with  three  sonorous  thumps  of  most  doleful  portent.  No  sooner 
did  he  touch  the  ground  than  he  was  completely  buried  with 
boys.  The  three  elder  laid  themselves  across  his  head,  neck, 


AUGUSTUS   BALDWIN    LONGSTREET  169 

and  breast,  the  rest  arranging  themselves  ad  libitum.  Michael's 
equanimity  was  considerably  disturbed  by  the  first  thump,  be 
came  restive  with  the  second,  and  took  flight  with  the  third. 
His  first  effort  was  to  disengage  his  legs,  for  without  them  he 
could  not  rise,  and  to  lie  in  his  present  position  was  extremely 
inconvenient  and  undignified.  Accordingly,  he  drew  up  his 
right,  and  kicked  at  random.  This  movement  laid  out  about 
six  in  various  directions  upon  the  floor.  Two  rose  crying. 
"  Ding  his  old  red-headed  skin,"  said  one  of  them,  "  to  go 
and  kick  me  right  in  my  sore  belly,  where  I  fell  down  and 
raked  it  running  after  that  fellow  that  cried  '  school-butter.' " 

"  Drot  his  old  snaggle-tooth  picture,"  said  the  other,  "  to  go 
and  hurt  my  sore  toe,  where  I  knocked  the  nail  off  going  to 
the  spring  to  fetch  a  gourd  of  warter  for  him,  and  not  for 
myself  n  'other." 

"  Hut ! "  said  Captain  Griffin,  "  young  Washingtons  mind 
these  trifles !  At  him  again." 

The  name  of  Washington  cured  their  wounds  and  dried  up 
their  tears  in  an  instant,  and  they  legged  him  de  novo.  The  left 
leg  treated  six  more  as  unceremoniously  as  the  right  had  those 
just  mentioned ;  but  the  talismanic  name  had  just  fallen  upon 
their  ears  before  the  kick,  so  they  were  invulnerable.  They 
therefore  returned  to  the  attack  without  loss  of  time.  The 
struggle  seemed  to  wax  hotter  and  hotter  for  a  short  time  after 
Michael  came  to  the  ground,  and  he  threw  the  children  about 
in  all  directions  and  postures,  giving  some  of  them  thumps 
wThich  would  have  placed  the  ruffle-skirted  little  darlings  of  the 
present  day  under  the  discipline  of  paregoric  and  opodeldoc  for 
a  week ;  but  these  hardy  sons  of  the  forest  seemed  not  to  fee.1 
them.  As  Michael's^head  grew  easy,  his  limbs,  by  a  natural 
sympathy,  became  more  quiet,  and  he  offered  one  day's  holiday 
as  the  price.  The  boys  demanded  a  week ;  but  here  the 
captain  interposed,  and,  after  the  common  but  often  unjust 


I/O     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

custom  of  arbitrators,  split  the  difference.  In  this  instance  the 
terms  were  equitable  enough,  and  were  immediately  acceded  to 
by  both  parties.  Michael  rose  in  a  good  humor,  and  the  boys 
were,  of  course. 


WILLIAM  TAPPAN  THOMPSON 

[William  Tappan  Thompson  was  born  at  Ravenna,  Ohio,  in  1812. 
After  going  South  he  was  chiefly  engaged  in  journalistic  work, 
mainly  in  connection  with  the  Savannah  Morning  News,  with  which 
he  was  associated  until  his  death,  in  1882.  He  first  came  into  promi 
nence  as  a  humorous  writer  through  his  amusing  "  Major  Jones 
Letters,"  contributed  to  his  paper,  The  Miscellany,  published  at 
Madison,  Georgia,  from  1840  to  1845.  This  has  remained  his  most 
famous  book,  but  in  addition  to  it  he  published  several  other  volumes 
of  humorous  sketches.] 

MAJOR  JONES'S  COURTSHIP 

PINEVILLE,  December  27,  1842 

To  MR.  THOMPSON:  Dear  Sir — Crismus  is  over,  and  the 
thing  is  ded.  You  know  I  told  you  in  my  last  letter  I  was 
gwine  to  bring  Miss  Mary  up  to  the  chalk  a  Crismus.  Well, 
I  done  it,  slick  as  a  whistle,  though  it  come  mighty  nigh  bein 
a  serious  undertakin.  But  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  the  whole 
circumstance. 

The  fact  is,  I's  made  my  mind  up  more  'n  twenty  times  to 
jest  go  and  come  rite  out  with  the  whole  bisness  ;  but  whenever 
I  got  whar  she  was,  and  whenever  she  looked  at  me  with  her 
witchin  eyes,  and  kind  o'  blushed  at  me,  I  always  felt  sort  o' 
skeered  and  fainty,  and  all  what  I  made  up  to  tell  her  was  for 
got,  so  I  could  n't  think  of  it  to  save  me.  But  you  's  a  married 
man,  Mr.  Thompson,  so  I  could  n't  tell  you  nothin  about  popin 
the  question,  as  they  call  it.  It 's  a  mighty  grate  favor  to  ax  of 


WILLIAM  TAPPAN   THOMPSON  I/I 

a  rite  pretty  gall,  and  to  people  as  ain't  used  to  it,  it  goes  mon 
strous  hard,  don't  it  ?  They  say  widders  don't  mind  it  no  more  'n 
nothin.  But  I'm  makin  a  transgression,  as  the  preacher  ses. 

Crismus  eve  I  put  on  my  new  suit,  and  shaved  my  face  as 
slick  as  a  smoothin  iron,  and  after  tea  went  over  to  old  Miss 
Stallinses.  As  soon  as  I  went  into  the  parler  whar  they  was  all 
settin  round  the  fire,  Miss  Carline  and  Miss  Kesiah  both 
laughed  rite  out. 

"  There,  there,"  ses  they,  "  I  told  you  so,  I  knew  it  would 
be  Joseph." 

"  What 's  I  done,  Miss  Carline  ?  "  ses  I. 

"  You  come  under  little  sister's  chicken  bone,  and  I  do 
blieve  she  knew  you  was  comin  when  she  put  it  over 
the  dore." 

"No,  I  didn't  —  I  didn't  no  such  thing,  now,"  ses  Miss 
Mary,  and  her  face  blushed  red  all  over. 

"  Oh,  you  need  n't  deny  it,"  ses  Miss  Kesiah ;  "  you  b'long 
to  Joseph  now,  jest  as  sure  as  ther  's  any  charm  in  chicken 
bones." 

I  know'd  that  was  a  first-rate  chance  to  say  something,  but 
the  dear  little  creater  looked  so  sorry  and  kep  blushin  so,  I 
couldn't  say  nothin  zactly  to  the  pint,  so  I  tuck  a  chair  and 
reached  up  and  tuck  down  the  bone  and  put  it  in  my  pocket. 

"  What  are  you  gwine  to  do  with  that  old  bone  now,  Majer  ?" 
ses  Miss  Mary. 

"  I'm  gwine  to  keep  it  as  long  as  I  live,"  ses  I,  "as  a  Crismus 
present  from  the  handsomest  gall  in  Georgia." 

When  I  sed  that,  she  blushed  worse  and  worse. 

"  Ain't  you  shamed,  Majer  ?  "  ses  she. 

"  Now  you  ought  to  give  her  a  Crismus  gift,  Joseph,  to  keep 
all  her  life,"  sed  Miss  Carline. 

"  Ah,"  ses  old  Miss  Stallins,  "  when  I  was  a  gall  we  used  to 
hang  up  our  stockins  —  " 


1/2     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"  Why,  mother ! "  ses  all  of  'em,  "  to  say  stockins  rite 
afore  —  " 

Then  I  felt  a  little  streaked  too,  cause  they  was  all  blushin 
as  hard  as  they  could. 

"  Highty-tity !  "  ses  the  old  lady  —  "what  monstrous  'fine- 
ment.  I'd  like  to  know  what  harm  ther  is  in  stockins.  People 
nowadays  is  gittin  so  mealy-mouthed  they  can't  call  nothin  by 
its  rite  name,  and  I  don't  see  as  they  's  any  better  than  the  old- 
time  people  was.  When  I  was  a  gall  like  you,  child,  I  used  to 
hang  up  my  stockins  and  git  'em  full  of  presents." 

The  galls  kep  laughin. 

"  Never  mind,"  ses  Miss  Mary,  "  Majer  's  got  to  give  me  a 
Crismus  gift,  —  won't  you,  Majer  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  ses  I ;  "  you  know  I  promised  you  one." 

"  But  I  did  n't  mean  that"  ses  she. 

"  I  Ve  got  one  for  you,  what  I  want  you  to  keep  all  your 
life,  but  it  would  take  a  two-bushel  bag  to  hold  it,"  ses  I. 

"  Oh,  that 's  the  kind,"  ses  she. 

"  But  will  you  keep  it  as  long  as  you  live  ? "  ses  I. 

"  Certainly,  I  will,  Majer." 

"  Monstrous  'finement  nowadays  —  old  people  don't  know 
nothin  bout  perliteness,"  said  old  Miss  Stallins,  jest  gwine  to 
sleep  with  her  nittin  in  her  hand. 

"  Now  you  hear  that,  Miss  Carline,"  ses  I.  "  She  ses  she  '11 
keep  it  all  her  life." 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  ses  Miss  Mary  —  "  but  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,"  ses  I,  "  you  hang  up  a  bag  big  enuff  to  hold 
it  and  you  '11  find  out  what  it  is,  when  you  see  it  in  the  mornin." 

Miss  Carline  winked  at  Miss  Kesiah,  and  then  whispered  to 
her  —  then  they  both  laughed  and  looked  at  me  as  mischievous 
as  they  could.  They  spicioned  something. 

"  You  '11  be  sure  to  give  it  to  me  now,  if  I  hang  up  a  bag  ? " 
ses  Miss  Mary. 


WILLIAM   TAPPAN   THOMPSON  173 

"And  promise  to  keep  it,"  ses  I. 

"Well,  I  will,  cause  I  know  that  you  wouldn't  give  me 
nothin  that  wasn't  worth  keepin." 

They  all  agreed  they  would  hang  up  a  bag  for  me  to  put 
Miss  Mary's  Crismus  present  in,  in  the  back  porch ;  and  bout 
nine  o'clock  I  told  'em  good  evenin  and  went  home. 

I  sot  up  till  midnight,  and  when  they  was  all  gone  to  bed  I 
went  softly  into  the  back  gate,  and  went  up  to  the  porch,  and 
thar,  shore  enuff,  was  a  grate  big  meal  bag  hangin  to  the  jice. 
It  was  monstrous  unhandy  to  git  to  it,  but  I  was  tarmined  not 
to  back  out.  So  I  sot  some  chairs  on  top  of  a  bench  and  got 
hold  of  the  rope  and  let  myself  down  into  the  bag ;  but  jest  as 
I  was  gittin  in,  the  bag  swung  agin  the  chairs,  and  down  they 
went  with  a  terrible  racket.  But  nobody  didn't  wake  up  but 
old  Miss  Stallinses  grate  big  cur  dog,  and  here  he  cum  rippin 
and  tearin  through  the  yard  like  rath,  and  round  and  round  he 
went  tryin  to  find  what  was  the  matter.  I  sot  down  in  the  bag 
and  did  n't  breathe  louder  nor  a  kitten  for  fear  he  'd  find  me 
out,  and  after  a  while  he  quit  barkin.  The  wind  begun  to  blow 
bominable  cold,  and  the  old  bag  kep  turnin  round  and  swing 
ing  so  it  made  me  seasick  as  the  mischief.  I  was  fraid  to  move 
for  fear  the  rope  would  break  and  let  me  fall,  and  thar  I  sot 
with  my  teeth  rattlin  like  I  had  a  ager.  It  seemed  like  it  would 
never  come  daylight,  and  I  do  blieve  if  I  did  n't  love  Miss 
Mary  so  powerful  I  would  froze  to  death ;  for  my  hart  was 
the  only  spot  that  felt  warm,  and  it  didn't  beat  moren  two 
licks  a  minit,  only  when  I  thought  howr  she  would  be  sprised 
in  the  mornin,  and  then  it  went  in  a  canter.  Bimeby  the  cussed 
old  dog  come  up  on  the  porch  and  begun  to  smell  about  the 
bag,  and  then  he  barked  like  he  thought  he'd  treed  something. 
"  Bow  !  wow !  wow !  "  ses  he.  Then  he  'd  smell  agin  and  try 
to  git  up  to  the  bag.  "  Git  out ! "  ses  I,  very  low,  for  fear  they 
would  hear  me.  "  Bow  !  wow  !  wow  !  "  ses  he.  "  Be  gone  ! 


1/4     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

you  bominable  fool ! "  ses  I,  and  I  felt  all  over  in  spots,  for  I 
spected  every  minit  he'd  nip  me,  and  what  made  it  worse,  I 
did  n't  know  wharabouts  he  'd  take  hold.  "  Bow  !  wow  !  wow  ! " 
Then  I  tried  coaxin  —  "Come  here,  good  feller,"  ses  I,  and 
whistled  a  little  to  him,  but  it  wasn't  no  use.  Thar  he  stood 
and  kep  up  his  eternal  whinin  and  barkin,  all  night.  I  could  n't 
tell  when  daylight  was  breakin,  only  by  the  chickens  crowin, 
and  I  was  monstrous  glad  to  hear  'em,  for  if  I'd  had  to  stay 
thar  one  hour  more,  I  don't  blieve  I'd  ever  got  out  of  that 
bag  alive. 

Old  Miss  Stallins  come  out  fust,  and  as  soon  as  she  saw  the 
bag,  ses  she :  "  What  upon  yeath  has  Joseph  went  and  put  in 
that  bag  for  Mary  ?  I  '11  lay  it 's  a  yearlin  or  some  live  animal, 
or  Bruin  would  n't  bark  at  it  so." 

She  went  in  to  call  the  galls,  and  I  sot  thar,  shiverin  all  over 
so  I  couldn't  hardly  speak  if  I  tried  to, — but  I  didn't  say 
nothin.  Bimeby  they  all  come  runnin  out. 

"  My  Lord,  what  is  it  ?"  ses  Miss  Mary. 

"  Oh,  it's  alive !"  ses  Miss  Kesiah.    "I  seed  it  move." 

"  Call  Cato,  and  make  him  cut  the  rope,"  ses  Miss  Carline, 
"and  let's  see  what  it  is.  Come  here,  Cato,  and  git  this 
bag  down." 

"  Don't  hurt  it  for  the  world,"  ses  Miss  Mary. 

Cato  untied  the  rope  that  was  round  the  jice  and  let  the  bag 
down  easy  on  the  floor,  and  I  tumbled  out  all  covered  with  corn 
meal  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Goodness  gracious ! "  ses  Miss  Mary,  "  if  it  ain't  the 
Majer  himself!" 

"  Yes,"  ses  I,  "  and  you  know  you  promised  to  keep  my 
Crismus  present  as  long  as  you  lived." 

The  galls  laughed  themselves  almost  to  deth,  and  went  to 
brushin  off  the  meal  as  fast  as  they  could,  sayin  they  was 
gwine  to  hang  that  bag  up  every  Crismus  till  they  got  husbands, 


WILLIAM   TAPPAN   THOMPSON  175 

too.  Miss  Mary  —  bless  her  bright  eyes  —  she  blushed  as 
butiful  as  a  mornin-glory,  and  sed  she  'd  stick  to  her  word. 
She  was  rite  out  of  bed,  and  her  hair  wasn't  komed,  and  her 
dress  wasn't  fix't  at  all,  but  the  way  she  looked  pretty  was 
rale  distractin.  I  do  blieve  if  I  was  froze  stiff,  one  look  at  her 
charmin  face,  as  she  stood  lookin  down  to  the  floor  with  her 
rogish  eyes  and  her  bright  curls  fallin  all  over  her  snowy  neck, 
would  fotch'd  me  too.  I  tell  you  what,  it  was  worth  hangin  in 
a  meal  bag  from  one  Crismus  to  another  to  feel  as  happy  as  I 
have  ever  sense. 

I  went  home  after  we  had  the  laugh  out,  and  set  by  the  fire 
till  I  got  thawed.  In  the  forenoon  all  the  Stallinses  come  over 
to  our  house  and  we  had  one  of  the  greatest  Crismus  dinners 
that  ever  was  seed  in  Georgia,  and  I  don't  blieve  a  happier 
company  ever  sot  down  to  the  same  table.  Old  Miss  Stallins 
and  mother  settled  the  match,  and  talked  over  everything  that 
ever  happened  in  ther  families,  and  laughed  at  me  and  Mary, 
and  cried  bout  ther  ded  husbands,  cause  they  was  n't  alive  to 
see  ther  children  married. 

It's  all  settled  now,  'cept  we  hain't  sot  the  weddin  day.  I'd 
like  to  have  it  all  over  at  once,  but  young  galls  always  like  to 
be  engaged  awhile,  you  know,  so  I  spose  I  must  wait  a  month 
or  so.  Mary  (she  ses  I  must  n't  call  her  Miss  Mary  now)  has 
been  a  good  deal  of  trouble  and  botheration  to  me ;  but  if  you 
could  see  her  you  wouldn't  think  I  ought  to  grudge  a  little 
sufferin  to  git  sich  a  sweet  little  wife. 

You  must  come  to  the  weddin  if  you  possibly  kin.  I'll  let 
you  know  when.  No  more  from  Your  frend,  till  deth, 

Jos.  Jones 


1/6     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 


JOSEPH  GLOVER   BALDWIN 

[Joseph  Glover  Baldwin  was  born  in  Virginia,  near  Winchester, 
in  1815.  In  early  manhood  he  went  into  the  lower  South,  finally 
settling  in  Sumter  County,  Alabama.  He  practiced  law  in  Alabama, 
with  some  political  recognition,  until  he  moved  in  1854  to  California. 
In  1858  he  was  elected  to  the  supreme  court  of  California,  but  re 
signed  the  position  after  three  years  and  returned  to  the  practice  of 
law.  He  died  in  San  Francisco  in  1864.  He  obtains  his  position  in 
literature  through  two  volumes:  the  humorous  sketches,  originally 
contributed  to  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  published  in  book 
form  in  1853  as  "  Flush  Times  in  Alabama  and  Mississippi,"  and  a 
volume  entitled  "Party  Leaders,"  published  in  1855,  in  which  he 
sketched  with  considerable  ability  the  careers  of  several  prominent 
political  leaders  in  the  South.] 


OVID  BOLUS,  ESQ. 

And  what  history  of  that  halcyon  period,  ranging  from  t»e 
year  of  grace  1835  to  1837,  that  golden  era  when  shinplasters 
were  the  sole  currency,  when  bank  bills  were  "as  thick  as 
autumn  leaves  in  Vallombrosa,"  and  credit  was  a  franchise  — 
what  history  of  those  times  would  be  complete  that  left  out  the 
name  of  Ovid  Bolus  ?  As  well  write  the  biography  of  Prince 
Hal  and  forbear  all  mention  of  Falstaff.  In  law  phrase  the 
thing  would  be  a  "  deed  without  a  name,"  and  void ;  a  most 
unpardonable  casus  omissus.  .  .  . 

I  have  had  a  hard  time  of  it  in  endeavoring  to  assign  to 
Bolus  his  leading  vice.  I  have  given  up  the  task  in  despair, 
but  I  have  essayed  to  designate  that  one  which  gave  him,  in 
the  end,  most  celebrity.  I  am  aware  that  it  is  invidious  to 
make  comparisons  and  to  give  preeminence  to  one  over  other 
rival  qualities  and  gifts,  where  all  have  high  claims  to  distinc 
tion  ;  but  then,  the  stern  justice  of  criticism  in  this  case 
requires  a  discrimination  which  to  be  intelligible  and  definite 


JOSEPH   GLOVER  BALDWIN  177 

must  be  relative  and  comparative.  I  therefore  take  the  respon 
sibility  of  saying,  after  due  reflection,  that,  in  my  opinion, 
Bolus's  reputation  stood  higher  for  lying  than  for  anything 
else;  and  in  thus  assigning  preeminence  to  this  poetic  prop 
erty,  I  do  it  without  any  desire  to  derogate  from  other  brilliant 
characteristics  belonging  to  the  same  general  category,  which 
have  drawn  the  wondering  notice  of  the  world. 

Some  men  are  liars  from  interest ;  not  because  they  have  no 
regard  for  truth,  but  because  they  have  less  regard  for  it  than 
for  gain.  Some  are  liars  from  vanity;  because  they  would 
rather  be  well  thought  of  by  others  than  have  reason  for 
thinking  well  of  themselves.  Some  are  liars  from  a  sort  of 
necessity,  which  overbears,  by  the  weight  of  temptation,  the 
sense  of  virtue.  Some  are  enticed  away  by  allurements  of 
pleasure  or  seduced  by  evil  example  and  education.  Bolus  was 
none  of  these ;  he  belonged  to  a  higher  department  of  the  fine 
arts  and  to  a  higher  class  of  professors  of  this  sort  of  belles- 
lettres.  Bolus  was  a  natural  liar,  just  as  some  horses  are 
natural  pacers,  and  some  dogs  natural  setters.  What  he  did 
in  that  walk  was  from  the  irresistible  promptings  of  instinct 
and  a  disinterested  love  of  art.  His  genius  and  his  perform 
ances  were  free  from  the  vulgar  alloy  of  interest  or  temptation. 
Accordingly,  he  did  not  labor  a  lie.  He  lied  with  a  relish ;  he 
lied  with  a  coming  appetite,  growing  with  what  it  fed  on ;  he 
lied  from  the  delight  of  invention  and  the  charm  of  fictitious 
narrative.  It  is  true  he  applied  his  art  to  the  practical  purposes 
of  life,  but  in  so  far  did  he  glory  the  more  in  it,  just  as  an 
ingenious  machinist  rejoices  that  his  invention,  while  it  has 
honored  science,  has  also  supplied  a  common  want. 

Bolus's  genius  for  lying  was  encyclopedical ;  it  was  what 
German  criticism  calls  many-sided.  It  embraced  all  subjects 
without  distinction  or  partiality.  It  was  equally  good  upon  all, 
"  from  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe." 


178     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Bolus's  lying  came  from  his  greatness  of  soul  and  his  com 
prehensiveness  of  mind.  The  truth  was  too  small  for  him. 
Fact  was  too  dry  and  commonplace  for  the  fervor  of  his 
genius.  Besides,  great  as  was  his  memory,  —  for  he  even 
remembered  the  outlines  of  his  chief  lies,  —  his  invention  was 
still  larger.  He  had  a  great  contempt  for  history  and  histo 
rians.  He  thought  them  tame  and  timid  cobblers  —  mere 
tinkers  .on  other  peoples'  wares ;  simple  parrots  and  magpies 
of  other  men's  sayings  or  doings ;  borrowers  of  and  acknowl 
edged  debtors  for  others'  chattels,  got  without  skill ;  they  had 
no  separate  estate  in  their  ideas ;  they  were  bailees  of  goods 
which  they  did  not  pretend  to  hold  by  adverse  title ;  buriers  of 
talents  in  napkins,  making  no  usury ;  barren  and  unprofitable 
nonproducers  in  the  intellectual  vineyard  —  naticonsumerefruges. 

He  adopted  a  fact  occasionally  to  start  with,  but,  like  a 
Sheffield  razor  and  the  crude  ore,  the  workmanship,  polish,  and 
value  were  all  his  own.  A  Tibet  shawl  could  as  well  be  cred 
ited  to  the  insensate  goat  that  grew  the  wool,  as  the  author  of 
a  fact  that  Bolus  honored  with  his  artistical  skill  could  claim 
to  be  the  inventor  of  the  story.  .  .  . 

There  was  nothing  narrow,  sectarian,  or  sectional  in  Bolus's 
lying.  It  was,  on  the  contrary,  broad  and  catholic.  It  had  no 
respect  to  times  or  places.  It  was  as  wide,  illimitable,  as  elastic 
and  variable,  as  the  air  he  spent  in  giving  it  expression.  It  was 
a  generous,  gentlemanly,  whole-souled  faculty.  It  was  often 
employed  on  occasions  of  thrift,  but  no  more  and  no  more 
zealously  on  these  than  on  others  of  no  profit  to  himself.  He 
was  an  egotist,  but  a  magnificent  one ;  he  was  not  a  liar  be 
cause  an  egotist,  but  an  egotist  because  a  liar.  He  usually 
made  himself  the  hero  of  the  romantic  exploits  and  adventures 
he  narrated ;  but  this  was  not  so  much  to  exalt  himself  as 
because  it  was  more  convenient  to  his  art.  He  had  nothing 
malignant  or  invidious  in  his  nature.  If  he  exalted  himself, 


JOSEPH   GLOVER  BALDWIN  179 

it  was  seldom  or  never  to  the  disparagement  of  others,  unless, 
indeed,  those  others  were  merely  imaginary  persons  or  too  far 
off  to  be  hurt.  He  would  as  soon  lie  for  you  as  for  himself. 
It  was  all  the  same,  so  there  was  something  doing  in  his  line 
of  business,  except  on  those  cases  in  which  his  necessities  re 
quired  to  be  fed  at  your  expense. 

He  did  not  confine  himself  to  mere  lingual  lying ;  one  tongue 
was  not  enough  for  all  the  business  he  had  on  hand.  He  acted 
lies  as  well.  Indeed,  sometimes  his  very  silence  was  a  lie.  He 
made  nonentity  fib  for  him,  and  performed  wondrous  feats  by 
a  "  masterly  inactivity."  .  .  . 

In  lying,  Bolus  was  not  only  a  successful  but  he  was  a  very 
able  practitioner.  Like  every  other  eminent  artist  he  brought 
all  his  faculties  to  bear  upon  his  art.  Though  quick  of  percep 
tion  and  prompt  of  invention,  he  did  not  trust  himself  to  the 
inspirations  of  his  genius  for  improvising  a  lie  when  he  could 
well  premeditate  one.  He  deliberately  built  up  the  substantial 
masonry,  relying  upon  the  occasion  and  its  accessories  chiefly 
for  embellishment  and  collateral  supports,  as  Burke  excogi 
tated  the  more  solid  parts  of  his  great  speeches  and  left  unpre 
pared  only  the  illustrations  and  fancy  work.  .  .  . 

Bolus's  manner  was,  like  every  truly  great  man's,  his  own. 
It  was  excellent.  He  did  not  come  blushing  up  to  a  lie,  as  some 
otherwise  very  passable  liars  do,  as  if  he  was  making  a  mean 
compromise  between  his  guilty  passion  or  morbid  vanity  and  a 
struggling  conscience.  He  and  it  were  on  very  good  terms  — 
at  least,  if  there  was  no  affection  between  the  couple,  there  was 
no  fuss  in  the  family;  or,  if  there  were  any  scenes  or  angry 
passages,  they  were  reserved  for  strict  privacy  and  never  got 
out.  My  own  opinion  is  that  he  was  as  destitute  of  the  article 
as  an  ostrich.  Thus  he  came  to  his  work  bravely,  cheerfully,  and 
composedly.  The  delights  of  composition,  invention,  and  narra 
tion  did  not  fluster  his  style  or  agitate  his  delivery.  He  knew 


180     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

how,  in  the  tumult  of  passion,  to  assume  the  "  temperance  to 
give  it  smoothness."  A  lie  never  ran  away  with  him,  as  it  is  apt 
to  do  with  young  performers ;  he  could  always  manage  and 
guide  it,  and  to  have  seen  him  fairly  mounted  would  have  given 
you  some  idea  of  the  polished  elegance  of  D'Orsay  and  the 
superb  manage  of  Murat.  There  is  a  tone  and  manner  of  nar 
ration  different  from  those  used  in  delivering  ideas  just  con 
ceived,  just  as  there  is  difference  between  the  sound  of  the  voice 
in  reading  and  in  speaking.  Bolus  knew  this  and  practiced  on  it. 
When  he  was  narrating  he  put  the  facts  in  order  and  seemed 
to  speak  them  out  of  his  memory,  but  not  formally  or  as  if  by 
rote.  He  would  stop  himself  to  correct  a  date  ;  recollect  he  was 
wrong  —  he  was  at  that  year  at  the  White  Sulphur  or  Saratoga, 
etc. ;  having  got  the  date  right  the  names  of  persons  present 
would  be  incorrect,  etc.,  and  these  he  corrected  in  turn.  A 
stranger  hearing  him  would  have  feared  the  marring  of  a  good 
story  by  too  fastidious  a  conscientiousness  in  the  narrator. 

HOW  THE   FLUSH  TIMES  SERVED  THE  VIRGINIANS 

Superior  to  many  of  the  settlers  in  elegance  of  manners  and 
general  intelligence,  it  was  the  weakness  of  the  Virginian  to 
imagine  he  was  superior  too  in  the  essential  art  of  being  able 
to  hold  his  hand  and  make  his  way  in  a  new  country,  and 
especially  such  a  country  and  at  such  a  time.  What  a  mistake 
that  was !  The  times  were  out  of  joint.  It  was  hard  to  say 
whether  it  were  more  dangerous 'to  stand  still  or  to  move.  If 
the  emigrant  stood  still,  he  was  consumed,  by  no  slow  degrees, 
by  expenses ;  if  he  moved,  ten  to  one  he  went  off  in  a  galloping 
consumption  by  a  ruinous  investment.  Expenses  then  —  neces 
sary  articles  about  three  times  as  high,  and  extra  articles  still 
more  extra-priced  —  were  a  different  thing  in  the  new  country 
from  what  they  were  in  the  old.  In  the  old  country,  a  jolly 


JOSEPH    GLOVER   BALDWIN  l8l 

Virginia,  starting  the  business  of  free  living  on  a  capital  of  a 
plantation,  and  fifty  or  sixty  negroes,  might  reasonably  calculate, 
if  no  ill  luck  befell  him,  by  the  aid  of  a  usurer,  and  the  occasional 
sale  of  a  negro  or  two,  to  hold  out  without  declared  insolvency, 
until  a  green  old  age.  His  estate  melted  like  an  estate  in 
chancery,  under  the  gradual  thaw  of  expenses ;  but  in  the  fast 
country,  it  went  by  the  sheer  cost  of  living  —  some  poker  losses 
included  —  like  the  fortune  of  the  confectioner  in  California, 
who  failed  for  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  the  six  months' 
keeping  of  a  candy  shop.  But  all  the  habits  of  his  life,  his 
taste,  his  associations,  his  education  —  even-thing  —  the  trust- 
ingness  of  his  disposition  —  his  want  of  business  qualification  — 
his  sanguine  temper  —  all  that  was  Virginian  in  him,  made  him 
the  prey,  if  not  of  imposture,  at  least  of  unfortunate  specula 
tions.  Where  the  keenest  jockey  often  was  bit,  what  chance 
had  /ie?  About  the  same  that  the  verdant  Moses  had  with  the 
venerable  old  gentleman,  his  father's  friend,  at  the  fair,  when 
he  traded  the  Vicar's  pony  for  the  green  spectacles.  But  how 
could  he  believe  it  ?  How  could  he  believe  that  the  stuttering, 
grammarless  Georgian,  who  had  never  heard  of  the  resolutions 
of  '98,  could  beat  him  in  a  land  trade  ?  "  Have  no  money  deal 
ings  with  my  father,"  said  the  friendly  Martha  to  Lord  Nigel, 
"for,  idiot  though  he  seems,  he  will  make  an  ass  of  thee." 
What  pity  some  monitor,  equally  wise  and  equally  successful 
with  old  Trapbois'  daughter,  had  not  been  at  the  elbow  of  even- 
Virginia  !  "  T  wad  frae  monie  a  blunder  freed  him  —  an' 
foolish  notion." 

If  he  made  a  bad  bargain,  how  could  he  expect  to  get  rid  of 
it  ?  He  knew  nothing  of  the  elaborate  machinery  of  ingenious 
chicane  —  such  as  feigning  bankruptcy,  fraudulent  convey 
ances,  making  over  to  his  wife,  running  property  —  and  had 
never  heard  of  such  tricks  of  trade  as  sending  out  coffins  to  the 
.graveyard,  with  negroes  inside,  carried  off  by  sudden  spells  of 


1 82     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

imaginary  disease,  to  be  "resurrected"  in  due  time  grinning  on 
the  banks  of  the  Brazos. 

The  new  philosophy  too  had  commended  itself  to  his 
speculative  temper.  He  readily  caught  at  the  idea  of  a  new 
spirit  of  the  age  having  set  in,  which  rejected  the  saws  of  Poor 
Richard  as  being  as  much  out  of  date  as  his  almanacs.  He 
was  already,  by  the  great  rise  of  property,  compared  to  his  con 
dition  under  the  old-time  prices,  rich ;  and  what  were  a  few 
thousands  of  debt,  which  two  or  three  crops  would  pay  off, 
compared  to  the  value  of  his  estate  ?  (He  never  thought  that 
the  value  of  property  might  come  down,  while  the  debt  was  a 
fixed  fact.)  He  lived  freely,  for  it  was  a  liberal  time,  and  liberal 
fashions  were  in  vogue,  and  it  was  not  for  a  Virginian  to  be 
d^  others^  in  hospitality  andliberalityi He  required  credit 

d  security,  and,  of  course,-  had  to  sta^d  security  in  return. 
When  the  crash  came,  and  no  "accommodations"  could  be  had, 
except  in  a  few  instances,  and  in  those  on  the  most  ruinous 
terms,  he  fell  an  easy  victim.  They  broke  by  neighborhoods. 
They  usually  indorsed  for  each  other,  and  when  one  fell  —  like 
the  child's  play  of  putting  bricks  on  end  at  equal  distances,  and 
dropping  the  first  in  line  against  the  second,  which  fell  against 
the  third,  and  so  on  to  the  last —  all  fell ;  each  got  broke  as 
security,  and  yet  few  or  none  were  able  to  pay  their  own 
debts!  .  .  . 

There  was  one  consolation — if  the  Virginian  involved  him 
self  like  a  fool,  he  suffered  himself  to  be  sold  mil-  like  a  gpntle- 
man.  When  his  card  house  of  visionary  projects  came  tumbling 
about  his  ears,  the  next  question  was,  the  one  Webster  plagia 
rized,  "  Where  am  I  to  go  ?  "  Those  who  had  fathers,  uncles, 
aunts,  or  other  dernier  resorts  in  Virginia  limped  back,  with 
feathers  molted  and  crestfallen,  to  the  old  stamping  ground, 
carrying  the  returned  Californian's  fortune  of  ten  thousand 
dollars  —  six  bits  in  money,  and  the  balance  in  experience. 


JOSEPH   GLOVER  BALDWIN  183 

Those  who  were  in  the  condition  of  the  prodigal  (barring  the 
father,  the  calf  —  the  fatted  one  I  mean  —  and  the  fiddle)  had 
to  turn  their  accomplishments  to  account ;  and  many  of  them, 
having  lost  all  by  eating  and  drinking,  sought  the  retributive 
justice  from  meat  and  drink,  which  might  at  least  support 
them  in  poverty.  Accordingly  they  kept  tavern  and  made  a 
barter  of  hospitality,  a  business  the  only  disagreeable  part  of 
which  was  receiving  the  money,  and  the  only  one  I  know  for 
which  a  man  can  eat  and  drink  himself  into  qualification.  And 
while  I  confess  I  never  knew  a  Virginian,  out  of  the  state,  to 
keep  a  bad  tavern,  I  never  knew  one  to  draw  a  solvent  breath 
from  the  time  he  opened  house  until  death  or  the  sheriff 
closed  it. 

Others  again  got  to  be  not  exactly  overseers  but  some 
nameless  thing,  the  duties  of  which  were  nearly  analogous,  for 
some  more  fortunate  Virginian,  who  had  escaped  the  wreck 
and  who  had  got  his  former  boon  companion  to  live  with  him 
on  board,  or  other  wages,  in  some  such  relation  that  the  friend 
was  not  often  found  at  table  at  the  dinings  given  to  the  neigh 
bors,  and  had  got  to  be  called  Mr.  Flournoy  instead  of  Bob,  and 
slept  in  an  outhouse  in  the  yard,  and  only  read  the  Enquirer  of 
nights  and  Sundays. 

Some  of  the  younger  scions  that  had  been  transplanted  early 
and  stripped  of  their  foliage  at  a  tender  age,  had  been  turned 
into  birches  for  the  corrective  discipline  of  youth.  Yes ;  many 
who  had  received  academical  or  collegiate  educations,  disre 
garding  the  allurements  of  the  highway,  turning  from  the  gala- 
day  exercise  of  ditching,  scorning  the  effeminate  relaxation  of 
splitting  rails,  heroically  led  the  Forlorn  Hope  of  the  battle  of 
life,  the  corps  of  pedagogues  of  country  schools  —  academics, 
I  beg  pardon  for  not  saying ;  for,  under  the  Virginia  economy, 
every  crossroad  log  cabin,  where  boys  were  flogged  from 
B-a-k-e-r  to  Constantinople,  grew  into  the  dignity  of  a  sort 


1 84     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

of  runt  college ;  and  the  teacher  vainly  endeavored  to  hide  the 
meanness  of  the  calling  beneath  the  sonorous  sobriquet  of 
Professor.  .  .  . 

I  had  a  friend  on  whom  this  catastrophe  descended.  Tom 
Edmundson  was  buck  of  the  first  head  —  gay,  witty,  dashing, 
vain,  proud,  handsome,  and  volatile,  and,  withal,  a  dandy  and 
lady's  man  to  the  last  intent  in  particular.  He  had  graduated  at 
the  University,  and  had  just  settled  with  his  guardian,  and 
received  his  patrimony  of  ten  thousand  dollars  in  money.  Being 
a  young  gentleman  of  enterprise,  he  sought  the  alluring  fields 
of  Southwestern  adventure,  and  found  them  in  this  state. 
Before  he  well  knew  the  condition  of  his  exchequer,  he  had 
made  a  permanent  investment  of  one  half  of  his  fortune  in 
cigars,  champagne,  trinkets,  buggies,  horses,  and  current  ex 
penses,  including  some  small  losses  at  poker,  which  game  he 
patronized  merely  for  amusement;  and  found  that  it  diverted 
him  a  good  deal,  but  diverted  his  cash  much  more.  He  invested 
the  balance,  on  private  information  kindly  given  him,  in 
"Choctaw  Floats,"  a  most  lucrative  investment  it  would  have 
turned  out  but  for  the  facts :  i .  That  the  Indians  never  had 
any  title ;  2 .  The  white  man  who  kindly  interposed  to  act  as 
guardian  for  the  Indians  did  not  have  the  Indian  title ;  3.  The 
land,  left  subject  to  entry  if  the  "Floats"  had  been  good,  was 
not  worth  entering.  "  These  imperfections  off  its  head,"  I 
know  of  no  fancy  stock  I  would  prefer  to  a  "  Choctaw  Float." 
"  Brief,  brave,  and  glorious "  was  "  Tom's  young  career." 
When  Thomas  found,  as  he  did  shortly,  that  he  had  bought 
five  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  moonshine  and  had  no  title  to  it, 
he  honestly  informed  his  landlord  of  the  state  of  his  "fiscality," 
and  that  worthy  kindly  consented  to  take  a  new  buggy,  at  half 
price,  in  payment  of  the  old  balance.  The  horse,  a  nick-tailed 
trotter,  Tom  had  raffled  off,  but  omitting  to  require  cash,  the 
process  of  collection  resulted  in  his  getting  the  price  of  one 


JOSEPH    GLOVER  BALDWIN  185 

chance  —  the  winner  of  the  horse  magnanimously  paying  his 
subscription.  The  rest  either  had  gambling  offsets,  else  were 
not  prepared  just  at  any  one  particular  given  moment  to  pay 
up,  though  always  ready  generally  and  in  a  general  way. 

Unlike  his  namesake,  Tom  and  his  landlady  were  not  —  for 
a  sufficient  reason  —  very  gracious ;  and  so,  the  only  common 
bond,  Tom's  money,  being  gone,  Tom  received  "notice  to  quit" 
in  regular  form. 

In  the  hurly-burly  of  the  times  I  lost  sight  of  Tom  for  a 
considerable  period.  One  day,  as  I  was  traveling  over  the  hills 
in  Greene,  by  a  crossroad  leading  me  near  a  country  mill,  I 
stopped  to  get  water  at  a  spring  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill. 
Clambering  up  the  hill,  after  remounting,  the  summit  of  it 
brought  me  to  a  view,  on  the  other  side,  through  the  bushes,  of 
a  log  country  schoolhouse,  the  door  being  wide  open,  and  who 
did  I  see  but  Tom  Edmundson,  dressed  as  fine  as  ever,  sitting 
back  in  an  armchair,  one  thumb  in  his  waistcoat  armhole,  the 
other  hand  brandishing  a  long  switch,  or  rather  pole.  As  I  ap 
proached  a  little  nearer  I  heard  him  speak  out :  *'  Sir  — Thomas 
Jefferson,  of  Virginia,  was  the  author  of  the  Declaration  of 
Independence  —  mind  that.  I  thought  everybody  knew  that  — 
even  the  Georgians."  Just  then  he  saw  me  coming  through  the 
bushes  and  entering  the  path  that  led  by  the  door.  Suddenly 
he  broke  from  the  chair  of  state,  and  the  door  was  slammed  to, 
and  I  heard  some  one  of  the  boys,  as  I  passed  the  door,  say, 
"Tell  him  he  can't  come  in  —  the  master  's  sick."  This  was 
the  last  I  ever  saw  of  Tom.  I  understand  he  afterwards  moved 
to  Louisiana,  where  he  married  a  rich  French  widow,  having 
first,  however,  to  fight  a  duel  with  one  of  her  sons,  whose  oppo 
sition  could  n't  be  appeased  until  some  such  expiatory  sacrifice 
to  the  manes  of  his  worthy  father  was  attempted ;  which  fail 
ing,  he  made  rather  a  lame  apology  for  his  zealous  indiscre 
tion,  —  the  poor  fellow  could  make  no  other,  —  for  Tom  had 


1 86     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

unfortunately  fixed  him  for  visiting  his  mother  on  crutches  the 
balance  of  his  life. 

One  thing  I  will  say  for  the  Virginians  —  I  never  knew  one 
of  them,  under  any  pressure,  to  extemporize  a  profession.    The 


fffr 


i\ 


TOM   EDMUNDSON  AS  SCHOOLMASTER 

Reproduction  of  one  of  the  original  illustrations  of  "  Flush  Times  in 
Alabama  and  Mississippi " 

sentiment  of  reverence  for  the  mysteries  of  medicine  and  law 
was  too  large  for  deliberate  quackery ;  as  to  the  pulpit,  a  man 
might  as  well  do  his  starving  without  the  hypocrisy.  But  others 
were  not  so  nice.  I  have  known  them  to  rush,  when  the  wolf 


JOSEPH    GLOVER   BALDWIN  1 87 

was  after  them,  from  the  countinghouse  or  the  plantation  into 
a  doctor's  shop  or  a  law  office,  as  if  those  places  were  the 
sanctuaries  from  the  avenger ;  some  pretended  to  be  doctors 
that  did  not  know  a  liver  from  a  gizzard,  administering  medicine 
by  the  guess,  without  knowing  enough  of  pharmacy  to  tell 
whether  the  stuff  exhibited  in  the  big-bellied  blue,  red,  and  green 
bottles  at  the  show  windows  of  the  apothecary's  shop  was 
given  by  the  drop  or  the  half  pint 

Divers  left,  but  what  became  of  them,  I  never  knew  any 
more  than  they  know  what  becomes  of  the  sora  after  frost. 
Many  were  the  instances  of  suffering ;  of  pitiable  misfortune, 
involving  and  crushing  whole  families ;  of  pride  abased ;  of 
honorable  sensibilities  wounded ;  of  the  provision  for  old  age 
destroyed ;  of  hopes  of  manhood  overcast ;  of  independence 
dissipated  and  the  poor  victim,  without  help,  or  hope,  or  sym 
pathy,  forced  to  petty  shifts  for  a  bare  subsistence,  and  a 
ground-scuffle  for  what  in  happier  days  he  threw  away.  But 
there  were  too  many  examples  of  this  sort  for  the  expenditure 
of  a  useless  compassion ;  just  as  the  surgeon  after  a  battle 
grows  case-hardened  from  an  excess  of  objects  of  pity. 


POETS 

ST.  GEORGE  TUCKER 

[St.  George  Tucker  was  born  in  Bermuda  in  1752.  He  came 
early  to  Virginia  and  was  educated  at  William  and  Mary  College, 
after  which  he  was  called  to  the  bar.  Tucker  served  in  the  Virginia 
legislature,  but  won  his  chief  distinction  as  professor  of  law  in  Wil 
liam  and  Mary  College.  In  addition  to  composing  fugitive  poems, 
of  which  the  one  here  given  is  the  best  known,  he  wrote  several 
political  and  legal  works  of  note.  He  died  in  1828.] 

RESIGNATION 

Days  of  my  youth, 

Ye  have  glided  away  ; 
Hairs  of  my  youth, 

Ye  are  frosted  and  gray ; 
Eyes  of  my  youth, 

Your  keen  sight  is  no  more ; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth, 

Ye  are  furrowed  all  o'er ; 
Strength  of  my  youth, 

All  your  vigor  is  gone ; 
Thoughts  of  my  youth, 

Your  gay  visions  are  flown. 

Days  of  my  youth, 

I  wish  not  your  recall ; 
Hairs  of  my  youth, 

I'm  content  ye  should  fall ; 
1 88 


ST.  GEORGE  TUCKER  189 

Eyes  of  my  youth, 

You  much  evil  have  seen ; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth, 

Bathed  in  tears  have  you  been ; 
Thoughts  of  my  youth, 

You  have  led  me  astray  ; 
Strength  of  my  youth, 

Why  lament  your  decay  ? 

Days  of  my  age, 

Ye  will  shortly  be  past ; 
Pains  of  my  age, 

Yet  awhile  ye  can  last ; 
Joys  of  my  age, 

In  true  wisdom  delight ; 
Eyes  of  my  age, 

Be  religion  your  light ; 
Thoughts  of  my  age, 

Dread  ye  not  the  cold  sod ; 
Hopes  of  my  age, 

Be  ye  fixed  on  your  God. 


IQO     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY 

[Francis  Scott  Key  was  born  in  Frederick  County,  Maryland,  in 
1 780.  After  being  educated  at  St.  John's  College,  Annapolis,  he 
began  the  practice  of  law  in  Washington,  where  he  died  in  1843. 
After  his  death  a  volume  of  his  poems  was  published,  but  as  it 
consists  largely  of  occasional  pieces  not  originally  intended  for 
publication,  it  has  added  little  to  his  fame,  and  "  The  Star-Spangled 
Banner  "  remains  his  best-known  production.] 


FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER 

O  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 

What  so  proudly  we  haiPd  at  the  twilight's  last  gleaming, 

Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the  perilous  fight, 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly  streaming  ? 


FRANCIS   SCOTT   KEY  191 

And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bomb  bursting  in  air. 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there ; 
O  !  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 

On  the  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 
What  is  that,  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  half  conceals,  half  discloses  ? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam 
In  full  glory  reflected,  now  shines  on  the  stream ; 
'T  is  the  star-spangled  banner ;  O  !  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 
A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  has  wash'd  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollution. 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 
From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave ; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

O !  thus  be  it  ever !  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  lov'd  homes  and  the  war's  desolation  ! 
Blest  with  vict'ry  and  peace,  may  the  heav'n-rescued  land 

Praise  the  power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a  nation, 
Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto  —  ///  God  is  our  trust, 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 


192     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE 

[Richard  Henry  Wilde  was  born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  in  1 789,  and 
died  in  New  Orleans  in  1847.  When  he  was  a  boy  his  family  came 
to  America  and  settled  in  Baltimore.  Upon  the  death  of  his  father  he* 
removed  to  Georgia,  where  he  studied  law  and  entered  politics,  even 
tually  becoming  for  several  terms  a  member  of  Congress.  During 
a  stay  in  Europe  from  1835  to  1840  he  did  considerable  study  in 
Dante  and  Tasso,  and  helped  to  discover  Giotto's  portrait  of  the 
first-named  poet.  On  his  return  he  settled  in  New  Orleans,  where 
he  became  professor  of  law  in  the  University  of  Louisiana.  Mean 
while  he  had  made  a  reputation  for  himself  as  a  poet  by  poems 
contributed  to  newspapers  and  magazines,  which  he  did  not  collect 
during  his  life  into  book  form.] 


MY  LIFE  IS  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  ROSE 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose, 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But,  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 

Is  scattered  on  the  ground  —  to  die  ! 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see  — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray : 
Its  hold  is  frail  —  its  date  is  brief, 

Restless  —  and  soon  to  pass  away  ! 
Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree  — 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me ! 


EDWARD   COATE    PINKNEY  193 

My  life  is  like  the  prints,  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand  ; 

Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 
All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand ; 

Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 

All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea  — 

But  none,  alas  !  shall  mourn  for  me  ! 


TO  THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

Winged  mimic  of  the  woods  !  thou  motley  fool ! 

Who  shall  thy  gay  buffoonery  describe  ? 
Thine  ever-ready  notes  of  ridicule 

Pursue  thy  fellows  still  with  jest  and  gibe. 

Wit,  sophist,  songster,  Yorick  of  thy  tribe, 
Thou  sportive  satirist  of  Nature's  school, 

To  thee  the  palm  of  scoffing  we  ascribe, 
Arch-mocker  and  mad  Abbot  of  Misrule  ! 

For  such  thou  art  by  day  —  but  all  night  long 
Thou  pourest  a  soft,  sweet,  pensive,  solemn  strain, 

As  if  thou  didst  in  this  thy  moonlight  song 
Like  to  the  melancholy  Jacques  complain, 

Musing  on  falsehood,  folly,  vice,  and  wrong, 
And  sighing  for  thy  motley  coat  again. 


EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY 

[Edward  Coate  Pinkney  was  born  in  London  in  1802,  while  his 
father  was  United  States  Commissioner  to  Great  Britain.  On  his  re 
turn  to  America,  he  was  put  to  school  in  Baltimore,  and  later  entered 
the  navy  as  midshipman.  He  resigned  from  the  navy  to  engage  in 
the  practice  of  law,  but  his  health  failed  and  he  died  in  Baltimore 


IQ4     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

in  1828,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six.  His  small  volume  of  poetry  pub 
lished  in  1825  contained  a  few  pieces  which  not  only  won  him  con 
siderable  praise  in  his  lifetime  but  are  sure  of  immortality  among 
American  lyrics.] 

SONG 

We  break  the  glass,  whose  sacred  wine 

To  some  beloved  health  we  drain, 
Lest  future  pledges,  less  divine, 

Should  e'er  the  hallowed  toy  profane ; 
v          And  thus  I  broke  a  heart,  that  poured 

Its  tide  of  feeling  out  for  thee, 
In  drafts,  by  after-times  deplored, 

Yet  dear  to  memory. 

»    .   .  *        But  still  the  old  impassioned  ways 

And  habits  of  myfcnind  remain, 
And%  still  unhap*py_  light  displays 

Thine  image  chambered  in  my  brain,     * 
And  still  it  looks  as  wnen  the  hotar^         -  ^+ 

Went  by  like  flights  of  singing  bird? 
Or  that  soft  chain  of  spoken  flowers, 

And  airy  gems,  thy  words. 

A  SERENADE 

Look  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love, 

And  shame  them  with  thine  eyes, 
On  which,  than  on  the  lights  above, 

There  hang  more  destinies. 
Night's  beauty  is  the  harmony 

Of  blending  shades  and  light ; 
Then,  Lady,  up,  —  look  out,  and  be 

A  sister  to  the  night !  — 


EDWARD    COATE   PINKNEY  195 

Sleep  not !  —  thine  image  wakes  for  aye, 

Within  my  watching  breast : 
Sleep  not !  —  from  her  soft  sleep  should  fly, 

Who  robs  all  hearts  of  rest. 
Nay,  Lady,  from  thy  slumbers  break, 

And  make  this  darkness  gay, 
With  looks,  whose  brightness  well  might  make 

Of  darker  nights  a  day. 


A  HEALTH 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'T  is  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burthened  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 
The  measures  of  her  hours ; 

Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 
The  freshness,  of  young  flowers ; 


196     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns,  — 

The  idol  of  past  years  ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain  ; 
But  memory  such  as  mine  of  her 

So  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh,  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon  — 
Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 


MIRABEAU  BUONAPARTE  LAMAR 

[Mirabeau  Buonaparte  Lamar  was  born  in  Georgia  in  i  798  and 
died  in  1859  at  Richmond,  Texas.  After  several  years  of  farming 
and  business  life,  Lamar  became,  in  1828,  editor  of  the  Columbus 
Independent.  Jn  1835  he  emigrated  to  Texas,  and  for  the  remainder 
of  his  days  lived  a  picturesque  life  in  that  state.  He  served  in 
the  Texan  war  for  independence,  and  in  the  Mexican  War.  Later 
in  life  he  received  diplomatic  appointments  to  Argentina,  Costa  Rica, 
and  Nicaragua.  His  volume  of  poems  entitled  "  Verse  Memorials  " 
was  published  in  1857.] 


MIRABEAU   BUONAPARTE    LAMAR  197 

THE  DAUGHTER  OF  MENDOZA 

O  lend  to  me,  sweet  nightingale, 

Your  music  by  the  fountains, 
And  lend  to  me  your  cadences, 

O  river  of  the  mountains  ! 
That  I  may  sing  my  gay  brunette, 
A  diamond  spark  in  coral  set, 
Gem  for  a  prince's  coronet  — 

The  daughter  of  Mendoza. 

How  brilliant  is  the  morning  star ! 

The  evening  star,  how  tender ! 
The  light  of  both  is  in  her  eye, 

Their  softness  and  their  splendor. 
But  for  the  lash  that  shades  their  light 
They  were  too  dazzling  for  the  sight ; 
And  when  she  shuts  them,  all  is  night--1 

The  daughter  of  Mendoza. 

O  !  ever  bright  and  beauteous  one, 

Bewildering  and  beguiling, 
The  lute  is  in  thy  silver}-  tones, 

The  rainbow  in  thy  smiling. 
And  thine  is,  too,  o'er  hill  and  dell, 
The  bounding  of  the  young  gazelle, 
The  arrow's  flight  and  ocean's  swell  — 

Sweet  daughter  of  Mendoza  !         ••'«*•  - 

What  though,  perchance,  we  meet  no  more? — 

What  though  too  soon  we  sever  ? 
Thy  form  will  float  like  emerald  light, 

Before  my  vision  ever. 


198     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

For  who  can  see  and  then  forget 
The  glories  of  my  gay  brunette  ? 
Thou  art  too  bright  a  star  to  set  — 
Sweet  daughter  of  Mendoza ! 


ALBERT  PIKE 

[Albert  Pike  was  a  New  Englander,  born  in  Boston  in  1809,  who 
settled  in  the  Southwest.  The  larger  part  of  the  time  he  lived  in 
Arkansas,  where  he  was  editor,  lawyer,  and  soldier.  After  the  Civil 
War,  in  which  he  served  on  the  Southern  side,  he  moved  to  Wash 
ington,  where  he  practiced  law.  There  he  died  in  1891.] 

TO  THE  MOCKING  BIRD 

Thou  glorious  mocker  of  the  world !    I  hear 
Thy  many  voices  ringing  through  the  glooms 

Of  these  green  solitudes ;  and  all  the  clear, 

Bright  joyance  of  their  song  enthralls  the  ear, 
And  floods  the  heart.    Over  the  sphered  tombs 

Of  vanished  nations  rolls  thy  music-tide : 
No  light  from  History's  starlit  page  illumes 

The  memory  of  these  nations ;  they  have  died : 

None  care  for  them  but  thou ;  and  thou  mayst  sing 
O'er  me,  perhaps,  as  now  thy  clear  notes  ring 

Over  their  bones  by  whom  thou  once  wast  deified. 

Glad  scorner  of  all  cities !    Thou  dost  leave 
The  world's  mad  turmoil  and  incessant  din, 

Where  none  in  others'  honesty  believe, 

Where  the  old  sigh,  the  young  turn  gray  and  grieve, 
Where  misery  gnaws  the  maiden's  heart  within. 

Thou  fleest  far  into  the  dark  green  woods, 

Where,  with  thy  flood  of  music,  thou  canst  win 


ALBERT   PIKE  199 

Their  heart  to  harmony,  and  where  intrudes 

No  discord  on  thy  melodies.    Oh,  where, 

Among  the  sweet  musicians  of  the  air. 
Is  one  so  dear  as  thou  to  these  old  solitudes  ? 

Ha  !  what  a  burst  was  that !    The  ^Eolian  strain 
Goes  floating  through  the  tangled  passages 

Of  the  still  woods ;  and  now  it  comes  again, 

A  multitudinous  melody,  like  a  rain 
Of  glassy  music  under  echoing  trees, 

Close  by  a  ringing  lake.    It  wraps  the  soul 
With  a  bright  harmony  of  happiness, 

Even  as  a  gem  is  wrapped  when  round  it  roll 
Thin  waves  of  crimson  flame,  till  we  become, 
With  the  excess  of  perfect  pleasure,  dumb, 

And  pant  like  a  swift  runner  clinging  to  the  goal. 

I  cannot  love  the  man  who  doth  not  love, 
As  men  love  light,  the  song  of  happy  birds ; 

For  the  first  visions  that  my  boy-heart  wove, 

To  fill  its  sleep  with,  were  that  I  did  rove 

Through  the  fresh  woods,  what  time  the  snowy  herds 

Of  morning  clouds  shrunk  from  the  advancing  sun, 
Into  the  depths  of  Heaven's  blue  heart,  as  words 

From  the  poet's  lips  float  gently,  one  by  one, 
And  vanish  in  the  human  heart ;  and  then 
I  reveled  in  such  songs,  and  sorrowed,  when, 

With  noon-heat  overwrought,  the  music-gush  was  done. 

I  would,  sweet  bird,  that  I  might  live  with  thee, 
Amid  the  eloquent  grandeur  of  these  shades, 
Alone  with  Nature  !  —  but  it  may  not  be  : 
I  have  to  struggle  with  the  stormy  sea 


200     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Of  human  life  until  existence  fades 
Into  death's  darkness.    Thou  wilt  sing  and  soar 

Through  the  thick  woods  and  shadow-checkered  glades, 
While  pain  and  sorrow  cast  no  dimness  o'er 

The  brilliance  of  thy  heart ;  but  I  must  wear, 

As  now,  my  garments  of  regret  and  care, 
As  penitents  of  old  their  galling  sackcloth  wore. 

Yet,  why  complain  ?    What  though  fond  hopes  deferred 
Have  overshadowed  Life's  green  paths  with  gloom  ? 

Content's  soft  music  is  not  all  unheard : 

There  is  a  voice  sweeter  than  thine,  sweet  bird, 
To  welcome  me,  within  my  humble  home ; 

There  is  an  eye,  with  love's  devotion  bright, 
The  darkness  of  existence  to  illume. 

Then  why  complain  ?    When  Death  shall  cast  his  blight 
Over  the  spirit,  my  cold  bones  shall  rest 
Beneath  these  trees ;  and  from  thy  swelling  breast, 

Over  them  pour  thy  song,  like  a  rich  flood  of  light. 

PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE 

[Philip  Pendleton  Cooke  was  born  in  Martinsburg,  Virginia,  in 
1 8 1 6.  After  graduating  from  Princeton  he  began  the  practice  of  law 
with  his  father,  but  spent  most  of  his  time  in  his  two  delights  — 
hunting  and  literary  pursuits.  He  was  a  man  with  lyrical  talent  who 
failed  of  full  development  through  failure  to  take  his  poetic  gift  seri 
ously,  habits  of  procrastination,  and  frail  health.  He  died  in  1850.] 

FLORENCE  VANE 

I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Florence  Vane ; 
My  life's  bright  dream,  and  early, 

Hath  come  again ; 


PHILIP   PENDLETON    COOKE  2OI 

I  renew,  in  my  fond  vision, 

My  heart's  dear  pain, 
My  hope,  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane. 


The  ruin  lone  and  hoary, 

The  ruin  old, 
Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  even  told,  — 
That  spot  —  the  hues  Elysian 

Of  sky  and  plain  — 
I  treasure  in  my  vision, 

Florence  Vane. 


Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime ; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rime ; 
Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main. 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane ! 


But,  fairest,  coldest  wonder ! 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under  — 

Alas  the  day ! 
And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain  — 
To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vane. 


202     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep, 
The  pansies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep ; 
May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Never  wane 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane ! 

LIFE  IN  THE  AUTUMN  WOODS 

Summer  has  gone ! 

And  fruitful  autumn  has  advanced  so  far, 
That  there  is  warmth,  not  heat,  in  the  broad  sun, 
And  you  may  look  with  steadfast  gaze  upon 

The  ardors  of  his  car ; 
The  stealthy  frosts,  whom  his  spent  looks  embolden, 

Are  making  the  green  leaves  golden. 

What  a  brave  splendor 

Is  in  the  October  air !    How  rich  and  clear  — 
How  life-full,  and  all  joyous  !    We  must  render 
Love  to  the  springtime,  with  its  sproutings  tender, 

As  to  a  child  quite  dear  — 
But  autumn  is  a  noon,  prolonged,  of  glory  — 

A  manhood  not  yet  hoary. 

I  love  the  woods 

In  this  best  season  of  the  liberal  year ; 
I  love  to  haunt  their  whispering  solitudes, 
And  give  myself  to  melancholy  moods, 

With  no  intruder  near ; 
And  find  strange  lessons,  as  I  sit  and  ponder, 

In  every  natural  wonder. 


PHILIP   PENDLETON   COOKE  203 

But  not  alone 

As  Shakespeare's  melancholy  courtier  loved  Ardennes, 
Love  I  the  autumn  forest ;  and  I  own 
I  would  not  oft  have  mused  as  he,  but  flown 

To  hunt  with  Amiens  — 
And  little  recked,  as  up  the  bold  deer  bounded, 

Of  the  sad  creature  wounded. 


That  gentle  knight, 

Sir  William  Wortley,  weary  of  his  part, 
In  painted  pomps,  which  he  could  read  aright, 
Built  Warncliffe  lodge  —  for  that  he  did  delight 

To  hear  the  belling  hart. 
It  was  a  gentle  taste,  but  its  sweet  sadness 

Yields  to  the  hunter's  madness. 


What  passionate 

And  wild  delight  is  in  the  proud  swift  chase ! 
Go  out  what  time  the  lark,  at  heaven's  red  gate, 
Soars  joyously  singing  —  quite  infuriate 

With  the  high  pride  of  his  place ; 
What  time  the  unrisen  sun  arrays  the  morning 

In  its  first  bright  adorning. 

Hark  the  shrill  horn  — 
As  sweet  to  hear  as  any  clarion  — 
Piercing  with  silver  call  the  ear  of  morn ; 
And  mark  the  steeds,  stout  Curtal,  and  Topthorn, 

And  Greysteil,  and  the  Don  — 
Each  one  of  them  his  fiery  mood  displaying 

With  pawing  and  with  neighing. 


204     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Urge  your  swift  horse 

After  the  crying  hounds  in  this  fresh  hour  — 
Vanquish  high  hills — stem  perilous  streams  perforce  — 
Where  the  glades  ope  give  free  wings  to  your  course — 

And  you  will  know  the  power 
Of  the  brave  chase  —  and  how  of  griefs  the  sorest, 

A  cure  is  in  the  forest. 


Or  stalk  the  deer : 

The  same  red  fires  of  dawn  illume  the  hills, 
The  gladdest  sounds  are  crowding  on  your  ear, 
There  is  a  life  in  all  the  atmosphere  — 

Your  very  nature  fills 
With  the  fresh  hour,  as  up  the  hills  aspiring, 

You  climb  with  limbs  untiring. 


It  is  a  fair 

And  pleasant  sight,  to  see  the  mountain  stag, 
With  the  long  sweep  of  his  swift  walk,  repair 
To  join  his  brothers  ;  or  the  plethoric  bear 

Lying  on  some  high  crag, 
With  pinky  eyes  half  closed,  but  broad  head  shaking, 

As  gadflies  keep  him  waking. 

And  these  you  see, 

And,  seeing  them,  you  travel  to  their  death, 
With  a  slow  stealthy  step  from  tree  to  tree  — 
Noting  the  wind,  however  faint  it  be ; 

The  hunter  draws  a  breath 
In  times  like  these,  which  he  will  say  repays  him 

For  all  the  care  that  waylays  him. 


THEODORE   O'HARA  205 

A  strong  joy  fills  — 

A  rapture  far  beyond  the  tongue's  cold  power  — 
My  heart  in  golden  autumn  fills  and  thrills ! 
And  I  would  rather  stalk  the  breezy  hills  — 

Descending  to  my  bower 
Nightly  by  the  bold  spirit  of  health  attended  — 

Than  pine  where  life  is  splendid. 

THEODORE  O'HARA 

[Theodore  O'Hara  was  born  of  Irish  parentage  at  Danville, 
Kentucky,  in  1820.  Upon  graduating  from  St.  Joseph's  College, 
at  Bardstown,  Kentucky,  he  studied  law.  After  serving  in  the 
Mexican  War,  he  was  editor  of  a  paper  in  Frankfort,  Kentucky, 
and  later  of  one  in  Mobile,  Alabama.  He  participated  in  the  Civil 
War,  and,  after  its  close,  he  engaged  in  farming  in  Alabama,  where 
he  died  in  1867.  O'Hara  has  left,  so  far  as  is  known,  but  two  poems, 
"  The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead  "  and  "  The  Old  Pioneer."] 

THE   BIVOUAC  OF  THE   DEAD 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo  : 
No  more  on  Life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind  ; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind ; 


206     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms ; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 


Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed  ; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 


The  neighboring  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past ; 
Nor  war's  wild  note  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  nevermore  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 


Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "  Victory  or  Death." 


THEODORE   O'HARA  2O/ 

Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 
For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain  ; 
And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide ; 
Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew, 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 


'T  was  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 
The  flower  of  his  beloved  land, 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 

His  first-born  laurels  grew, 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain, 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  moldered  slain. 
The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air. 


208     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave  : 
She  claims  from  war  his  richest  spoil  — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 


Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield  ; 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulcher. 


Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead  ! 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave ; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave  ; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  valor  proudly  sleeps. 


Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell ; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  deathless  tomb. 


ALEXANDER   BEAUFORT    MEEK  2OQ 

ALEXANDER  BEAUFORT  *MEEK 

[Alexander  Beaufort  Meek  was  born  in  Columbia,  South  Caro 
lina,  in  1814.  At  an  early  age  he  removed  with  his  parents  to  Ala 
bama,  where  he  became  lawyer,  politician,  editor.  After  the  Civil 
War  he  removed  to  Columbus,  Mississippi,  where  he  died,  in  1865. 
Besides  poetry,  he  published  a  volume  of  orations  and  sketches.] 


A  SONG 

The  bluebird  is  whistling  in  Hillibee  grove,  — 

Terra-re  !  Terra-re  ! 
His  mate  is  repeating  the  tale  of  his  love,  — 

Terra-re  ! 

But  never  that  song, 

As  its  notes  fleet  along, 
So  sweet  and  so  soft  in  its  raptures  can  be, 
As  thy  low-whispered  words,  young  chieftain,  to  me. 

Deep  down  in  the  dell  is  a  clear  crystal  stream, 

Terra-re!  Terra-re! 
Where,  scattered  like  stars,  the  white  pebbles  gleam, 

Terra-re  ! 

But  deep  in  my  breast, 

Sweet  thoughts  are  at  rest, 
No  eye  but  my  own  in  their  beauty  shall  see ; 
They  are  dreams,  happy  dreams,  young  chieftain,  of  thee. 

The  honey-bud  blooms  when  the  springtime  is  green, 

Terra-re  !  Terra-re  ! 
And  the  fawn  with  the  roe,  on  the  hilltop  is  seen, 

Terra-re  ! 


210     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

But  't  is  spring  all  the  year, 

When  my  loved  one  is  near, 

And  his  smiles  are  like  bright  beaming  blossoms  to  me, 
Oh !  to  rove  o'er  the  hilltop,  young  chieftain,  with  thee. 


LAND  OF  THE  SOUTH 

Land  of  the  South !  —  imperial  land  !  — 

How  proud  thy  mountains  rise  !  — 
How  sweet  thy  scenes  on  every  hand ! 

How  fair  thy  covering  skies  ! 
But  not  for  this,  —  oh,  not  for  these, 

I  love  thy  fields  to  roam,  — 
Thou  hast  a  dearer  spell  to  me,  — 

Thou  art  my  native  home ! 

Thy  rivers  roll  their  liquid  wealth, 

Unequaled  to  the  sea,  — 
Thy  hills  and  valleys  bloom  with  health, 

And  green  with  verdure  be  1 
But,  not  for  thy  proud  ocean  streams, 

Not  for  thine  azure  dome,  — 
Sweet,  sunny  South  !  —  I  cling  to  thee,  - 

Thou  art  my  native  home ! 

I  Ve  stood  beneath  Italia's  clime, 

Beloved  of  tale  and  song,  — 
On  Helvyn's  hills,  proud  and  sublime, 

Where  nature's  wonders  throng ; 
By  Tempe's  classic  sunlit  streams, 

Where  gods,  of  old,  did  roam,  — 
But  ne'er  have  found  so  fair  a  land 

As  thou  —  my  native  home  ! 


ALEXANDER  BEAUFORT  MEEK       211 

And  thou  hast  prouder  glories  too, 

Than  nature  ever  gave,  — 
Peace  sheds  o'er  thee,  her  genial  dew, 

And  Freedom's  pinions  wave,  — 
Fair  science  flings  her  pearls  around, 

Religion  lifts  her  dome,  — 
These,  these  endear  thee,  to  my  heart,  — 

My  own,  loved  native  home  ! 

And  "  heaven's  best  gift  to  man  "  is  thine, 

God  bless  thy  rosy  girls  !  — 
Like  sylvan  flowers,  they  sweetly  shine,  — 

Their  hearts  are  pure  as  pearls ! 
And  grace  and  goodness  circle  them, 

Where'er  their  footsteps  roam,  — 
How  can  I  then,  whilst  loving  them, 

Not  love  my  native  home ! 

Land  of  the  South  !  —  imperial  land  !  — 

Then  here  's  a  health  to  thee,  — 
Long  as  thy  mountain  barriers  stand, 

May'st  thou  be  blessed  and  free  !  — 
May  dark  dissension's  banner  ne'er 

Wave  o'er  thy  fertile  loam,  — 
But  should  it  come,  there 's  one  will  die, 

To  save  his  native  home ! 


THE  MOCKING  BIRD 

From  the  vale,  what  music  ringing, 
Fills  the  bosom  of  the  night ; 

On  the  sense,  entranced,  flinging 
Spells  of  witchery  and  delight ! 


212     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

O'er  magnolia,  lime  and  cedar, 

From  yon  locust  top,  it  swells, 
Like  the  chant  of  serenader, 
Or  the  rimes  of  silver  bells  ! 
Listen  !  dearest,  listen  to  it ! 

Sweeter  sounds  were  never  heard  ! 
'T  is  the  song  of  that  wild  poet  — 
Mime  and  minstrel — Mocking  Bird. 

See  him,  swinging  in  his  glory, 

On  yon  topmost  bending  limb ! 
Caroling  his  amorous  story, 

Like  some  wild  crusader's  hymn  ! 
Now  it  faints  in  tones  delicious 

As  the  first  low  vow  of  love ! 
Now  it  bursts  in  swells  capricious, 

All  the  moonlit  vale  above  ! 
Listen !  dearest,  etc. 

Why  is  't  thus,  this  sylvan  Petrarch 

Pours  all  night  his  serenade  ? 
'T  is  for  some  proud  woodland  Laura, 

His  sad  sonnets  all  are  made ! 
But  he  changes  now  his  measure  — 

Gladness  bubbling  from  his  mouth  — 
Jest,  and  gibe,  and  mimic  pleasure  — 

Winged  Anacreon  of  the  South  ! 
Listen !  dearest,  etc. 

Bird  of  music,  wit  and  gladness, 

Troubadour  of  sunny  climes, 
Disenchanter  of  all  sadness,  — 

Would  thine  art  were  in  my  rimes. 


HENRY  ROOTES  JACKSON         213 

O'er  the  heart  that's  beating  by  me, 

I  would  weave  a  spell  divine ; 
Is  there  aught  she  could  deny  me, 

Drinking  in  such  strains  as  thine  ? 
Listen !  dearest,  etc. 


HENRY  ROOTES  JACKSON 

[Henry  Rootes  Jackson  was  born  of  English  parentage  in  Athens, 
Georgia,  in  1820,  and  died  in  Savannah  in  1898.  After  graduating 
from  Yale  he  practiced  law  in  Georgia.  He  saw  service  in  both  the 
Mexican  War  and  the  Civil  War.  In  1853  he  accepted  a  diplomatic 
appointment  to  Austria;  in  1885  he  was  honored  with  a  similar 
appointment  to  Mexico.  His  contribution  to  Southern  poetry  is  a 
single  volume  of  poems.] 

THE  RED  OLD  HILLS  OF  GEORGIA 

The  red  old  hills  of  Georgia ! 

So  bald,  and  bare,  and  bleak  — 
Their  memory  fills  my  spirit 

With  thoughts  I  cannot  speak. 
They  have  no  robe  of  verdure, 

Stript  naked  to  the  blast ; 
And  yet,  of  all  the  varied  earth, 

I  love  them  best  at  last. 

The  red  old  hills  of  Georgia ! 

My  heart  is  on  them  now ; 
Where,  fed  from  golden  streamlets, 

Oconee's  waters  flow ! 
I  love  them  with  devotion, 

Though  washed  so  bleak  and  bare ;  — 
Oh  !  can  my  spirit  e'er  forget 

The  warm  hearts  dwelling  there  ? 


214     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

I  love  them  for  the  living,  — 

The  generous,  kind,  and  gay ; 
And  for  the  dead  who  slumber 

Within  their  breasts  of  clay. 
I  love  them  for  the  bounty, 

Which  cheers  the  social  hearth ; 
I  love  them  for  their  rosy  girls  — 

The  fairest  on  the  earth ! 


The  red  old  hills  of  Georgia ! 

Oh  !  where,  upon  the  face 
Of  earth,  is  freedom's  spirit 

More  bright  in  any  race  ?  — 
In  Switzerland  and  Scotland 

Each  patriot  breast  it  fills, 
But  oh !  it  blazes  brighter  yet 

Among  our  Georgia  hills  ! 

And  where,  upon  their  surface, 

Is  heart  to  feeling  dead  ?  — 
Oh  !  when  has  needy  stranger 

Gone  from  those  hills  unfed  ? 
There  bravery  and  kindness, 

For  aye,  go  hand  in  hand, 
Upon  your  washed  and  naked  hills, 

"  My  own,  my  native  land  !  " 

The  red  old  hills  of  Georgia 

I  never  can  forget ; 
Amid  life's  joys  and  sorrows, 

My  heart  is  on  them  yet ;  — 


HENRY  ROOTES  JACKSON         215 

And  when  my  course  is  ended, 

When  life  her  web  has  wove, 
Oh !  may  I  then,  beneath  those  hills, 

Lie  close  to  them  I  love ! 


MY  WIFE  AND  CHILD 

The  tattoo  beats ;  —  the  lights  are  gone  :  — 
The  camp  around  in  slumber  lies ;  — 

The  night,  with  solemn  pace,  moves  on ;  — 
The  shadows  thicken  o'er  the  skies ;  — 

But  sleep  my  weary  eyes  hath  flown, 
And  sad,  uneasy  thoughts  arise. 

I  think  of  thee,  oh  !  dearest  one  ! 

Whose  love  mine  early  life  hath  blest ;  — 
Of  thee  and  him  —  our  baby  son  — 

Who  slumbers  on  thy  gentle  breast ;  — 
God  of  the  tender,  frail,  and  lone, 

Oh  !  guard  that  little  sleeper's  rest ! 

And  hover,  gently  hover  near 

To  her,  whose  watchful  eye  is  wet  — 

The  mother,  wife,  the  doubly  dear, 

In  whose  young  heart  have  freshly  met 

Two  streams  of  love  so  deep  and  clear  — 
And  cheer  her  drooping  spirit  yet !    * 

Now,  as  she  kneels  before  thy  throne, 
Oh  !  teach  her,  Ruler  of  the  skies  ! 
That  while,  by  thy  behest  alone, 


2l6     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Earth's  mightiest  powers  fall  or  rise, 
No  tear  is  wept  to  thee  unknown, 
Nor  hair  is  lost,  nor  sparrow  dies ! 

That  thou  canst  stay  the  ruthless  hand 
Of  dark  disease,  and  soothe  its  pain ; 

That  only  by  thy  stern  command 
The  battle  's  lost,  the  soldier 's  slain  ; 

That  from  the  distant  sea  or  land 

Thou  bring'st  the  wanderer  home  again ! 

And  when  upon  her  pillow  lone 

Her  tear-wet  cheek  is  sadly  pressed, 

May  happier  visions  beam  upon 

The  brightening  currents  of  her  breast,  — 

Nor  frowning  look,  nor  angry  tone, 
Disturb  the  sabbath  of  her  rest ! 

Whatever  fate  those  forms  may  throw, 
Loved  with  a  passion  almost  wild  — 

By  day,  by  night  —  in  joy,  or  woe  — 

By  fears  oppressed,  or  hopes  beguiled  — 

From  every  danger,  every  foe, 

Oh  !  God  !  protect  my  wife  and  child  ! 

JAMES  MATTHEWS  LEGAR& 

[James  Matthews  Legare  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
in  1823.  Very  little  is  known  of  him  beyond  the  fact  that  he  in 
vented  several  appliances  which  failing  health  prevented  him  from 
perfecting,  and  that  he  contributed  poetry  to  the  magazines.  His 
single  volume  of  verse,  "  Orta-Undis,  and  Other  Poems,"  was  pub 
lished  in  1848.  He  died  in  Aiden,  South  Carolina,  in  1859.] 


JAMES   MATTHEWS   LEGARE  217 

TO  A  LILY 

Go  bow  thy  head  in  gentle  spite, 
Thou  lily  white. 

For  she  who  spies  thee  waving  here, 
With  thee  in  beauty  can  compare 
As  day  with  night. 

Soft  are  thy  leaves  and  white :  her  arms 
Boast  whiter  charms. 
Thy  stem  prone  bent  with  loveliness 
Of  maiden  grace  possesseth  less  : 
Therein  she  charms. 

Thou  in  thy  lake  dost  see 
Thyself :  so  she 
Beholds  her  image  in  her  eyes 
Reflected.    Thus  did  Venus  rise 
From  out  the  sea. 

Inconsolate,  bloom  not  again, 

Thou  rival  vain 

Of  her  whose  charms  have  thine  outdone : 

Whose  purity  might  spot  the  sun, 

And  make  thy  leaf  a  stain. 


HA\V  BLOSSOMS 

While  yesterevening,  through  the  vale 
Descending  from  my  cottage  door 
I  strayed,  how  cool  and  fresh  a  look 
All  nature  wore. 


218     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

The  calmias  and  goldenrods, 
And  tender  blossoms  of  the  haw, 
Like  maidens  seated  in  the  wood, 
Demure,  I  saw. 

The  recent  drops  upon  their  leaves 
Shone  brighter  than  the  bluest  eyes, 
And  filled  the  little  sheltered  dell 
Their  fragrant  sighs. 

Their  pliant  arms  they  interlaced, 
As  pleasant  canopies  they  were : 
Their  blossoms  swung  against  my  cheek 
Like  braids  of  hair. 

And  when  I  put  their  boughs  aside 
And  stooped  to  pass,  from  overhead 
The  little  agitated  things 
A  shower  shed 

Of  tears.    Then  thoughtfully  I  spoke  ; 
Well  represent  ye  maidenhood, 
Sweet  flowers.    Life  is  to  the  young 
A  shady  wood. 

And  therein  some  like  goldenrods, 
For  grosser  purposes  designed, 
A  gay  existence  lead,  but  leave 
No  germ  behind. 

And  others  like  the  calmias, 

On  cliff-sides  inaccessible, 

Bloom  paramount,  the  vale  with  sweets 

Yet  never  fill. 


JAMES   MATTHEWS   LEGARE  219 

But  underneath  the  glossy  leaves, 
When,  working  out  the  perfect  law, 
The  blossoms  white  and  fragrant  still 
Drop  from  the  haw  ; 

Like  worthy  deeds  in  silence  wrought 
And  secret,  through  the  lapse  of  years, 
In  clusters  pale  and  delicate 
The  fruit  appears. 

In  clusters  pale  and  delicate 
But  waxing  heavier  each  day, 
Until  the  many-colored  leaves 
Drift  from  the  spray. 

Then  pendulous,  like  amethysts 
And  rubies,  purple  ripe  and  red, 
Wherewith  God's  feathered  pensioners 
In  flocks  are  fed. 

Therefore,  sweet  reader  of  this  rime, 
Be  unto  thee  examples  high 
Not  calmias  and  goldenrods 
That  scentless  die : 

But  the  meek  blossoms  of  the  haw, 
That  fragrant  are  wherever  wind 
The  forest  paths,  and  perishing 
Leave  fruits  behind. 


220     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 

[For  the  details  of  Simms's  life  see  the  sketch  given  (page  104) 
in  connection  with  selections  from  his  prose  romances.  In  poetry  he 
was  prolific,  but  his  hand  was  too  heavy  for  verse,  and  his  poetic 
work  ranks  distinctly  lower  than  his  prose  writings.] 

OH,  THE  SWEET  SOUTH! 

Oh,  the  sweet  South !  the  sunny,  sunny  South ! 

Land  of  true  feeling,  land  forever  mine ! 
I  drink  the  kisses  of  her  rosy  mouth, 

And  my  heart  swells  as  with  a  draft  of  wine ; 
She  brings  me  blessings  of  maternal  love ; 

I  have  her  smile  which  hallows  all  my  toil ; 
Her  voice  persuades,  her  generous  smiles  approve, 

She  sings  me  from  the  s"ky  and  from  the  soil ! 
Oh  !  by  her  lonely  pines,  that  wave  and  sigh  — 

Oh !  by  her  myriad  flowers,  that  bloom  and  fade  — 
By  all  the  thousand  beauties  of  her  sky, 
And  the  sweet  solace  of  her  forest  shade. 
She's  mine  —  she's  ever  mine  — 
Nor  will  I  aught  resign 
Of  what  she  gives  me,  mortal  or  divine : 
Will  sooner  part 
With  life,  hope,  heart  — 
Will  die  —  before  I  fly  ! 

Oh !  love  is  hers  —  such  love  as  ever  glows 
In  souls  where  leaps  affection's  living  tide ; 

She  is  all  fondness  to  her  friends  —  to  foes 

She  glows  a  thing  of  passion,  strength,  and  pride ; 

She  feels  no  tremors  when  the  danger  's  nigh, 
But  the  fight  over,  and  the  victory  won, 


221 


222     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

How,  with  strange  fondness,  turns  her  loving  eye, 

In  tearful  welcome,  on  each  gallant  son ! 
Oh  !  by  her  virtues  of  the  cherished  past  — 

By  all  her  hopes  of  what  the  future  brings  — 
I  glory  that  my  lot  with  her  is  cast, 

And  my  soul  flushes,  and  exultant  sings : 
She 's  mine  —  she 's  ever  mine  — 
For  her  I  will  resign 

All  precious  things  —  all  placed  upon  her  shrine ; 
Will  freely  part 
With  life,  hope,  heart,  - 
Will  die  —  do  aught  but  fly  1 


THE  SWAMP  FOX 

We  follow  where  the  Swamp  Fox  guides, 

His  friends  and  merry  men  are  we ; 
And  when  the  troop  of  Tarleton  rides, 

We  burrow  in  the  cypress  tree. 
The  turfy  hammock  is  our  bed, 

Our  home  is  in  .the  red  deer's  den, 
Our  roof,  the  tree  top  overhead, 

For  we  are  wild  and  hunted  men. 

We  fly  by  day  and  shun  its  light, 

But,  prompt  to  strike  the  sudden  blow, 
We  mount  and  start  with  early  night, 

And  through  the  forest  track  our  foe. 
And  soon  he  hears  our  chargers  leap, 

The  flashing  saber  blinds  his  eyes, 
And  ere  he  drives  away  his  sleep, 

And  rushes  from  his  camp,  he  dies. 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS  223 

« 
Free  bridle  bit,  good  gallant  steed, 

That  will  not  ask  a  kind  caress 
To  swim  the  Santee  at  our  need, 

When  on  his  heels  the  foemen  press,  — 
The  true  heart  and  the  ready  hand, 

The  spirit  stubborn  to  be  free, 
The  twisted  bore,  the  smiting  brand,  — 

And  we  are  Marion's  men,  you  see. 


Now  light  the  fire  and  cook  the  meal, 

The  last,  perhaps,  that  we  shall  taste ; 
I  hear  the  Swamp  Fox  round  us  steal, 

And  that's  a  sign  we  move  in  haste. 
He  whistles  to  the  scouts,  and  hark ! 

You  hear  his  order  calm  and  low. 
Come,  wave  your  torch  across  the  dark, 

And  let  us  see  the  boys  that  go. 

We  may  not  see  their  forms  again, 

God  help  'em,  should  they  find  the  strife ! 
For  they  are  strong  and  fearless  men, 

And  make  no  coward  terms  for  life ; 
They  '11  fight  as  long  as  Marion  bids, 

And  when  he  speaks  the  word  to  shy, 
Then,  not  till  then,  they  turn  their  steeds, 

Through  thickening  shade  and  swamp  to  fly 


Now  stir  the  fire  anjd  lie  at  ease,  — 
The  scouts  are  gone,  and  on  the  brush 

I  see  the  Colonel  bend  his  knees, 

To  take  his  slumbers  too.    But  hush  ! 


224     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 
» 

He's  praying,  comrades;  'tis  not  strange; 

The  man  that's  fighting  day  by  day 
May  well,  when  night  comes,  take  a  change, 
And  down  upon  his  knees  to  pray. 


Break  up  that  hoecake,  boys,  and  hand 

The  sly  and  silent  jug  that's  there ; 
I  love  not  it  should  idly  stand 

When  Marion's  men  have  need  of  cheer. 
'Tis  seldom  that  our  luck  affords 

A  stuff  like  this  we  just  have  quaffed, 
And  dry  potatoes  on  our  boards 

May  always  call  for  such  a  draft. 

Now  pile  the  brush  and  roll  the  log ; 

Hard  pillow,  but  a  soldier's  head 
That's  half  the  time  in  brake  and  bog 

Must  never  think  of  softer  bed. 
The  owl  is  hooting  to  the  night, 

The  cooter  crawling  o'er  the  bank, 
And  in  that  pond  the  flashing  light 

Tells  where  the  alligator  sank. 


What !  't  is  the  signal  1  start  so  soon, 

And  through  the  Santee  swamp  so  deep, 
Without  the  aid  of  friendly  moon, 

And  we,  Heaven  help  us !  half  asleep  ! 
But  courage,  comrades  J    Marion  leads, 

The  Swamp  Fox  takes  us  out  to-night ; 
So  clear  your  swords  and  spur  your  steeds, 

There 's  goodly  chance,  I  think,  of  fight. 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  225 

We  follow  where  the  Swamp  Fox  guides, 

We  leave  the  swamp  and  cypress  tree, 
Our  spurs  are  in  our  coursers'  sides, 

And  ready  for  the  strife  are  we. 
The  Tory  camp  is  now  in  sight, 

And  there  he  cowers  within  his  den ; 
He  hears  our  shouts,  he  dreads  the  fight, 

He  fears,  and  flies  from  Marion's  men. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

[For  sketch  of  Poe's  life  see  page  27.] 

TO  HELEN 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nice'an  barks  of  yore, 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary,  wayworn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 

And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo  !  in  yon  brilliant  window  niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand ! 

Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy-Land ! 


POE'S  ROOM  AT  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA,  NO.  13  WEST  RANGE 

Upper  picture,   the   doorway  of  the  room  with  the  memorial  tablet 

above  it ;    middle  picture,  the  arcade  in  which  the  room  is  located ; 

lower  picture,  the  interior  of  the  room  as  it  is  at  present  with  various 

relics  relating  to  Poe 


226 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  22/ 

ISRAFEL 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

"  Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute"; 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 
And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell), 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 

Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamored  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven,) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 

And  the  other  listening  things) 
That  Israfeli's  fire 
Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings  — 
The  trembling  living  wire 

Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 
Where*  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty  — 
Where  Love 's  a  grown-up  God  — 

Where  the  Houri  glances  are 
Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 

Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 


228     SOUTHERN   LIFE   IN   SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

Therefore,  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song ; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest ! 
Merrily  live,  and  long ! 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit  — 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 

With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute  — 

Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine ;  but  this 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours ; 

Our  flowers  are  merely  —  flowers, 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 

Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

THE  RAVEN 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,   while  I   pondered,   weak  and 

weary, 

Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore  — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  229 

As  of  someone  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 

*  'Tis   some  visitor,"    I   muttered,   "  tapping   at   my   chamber 

door  — 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December ; 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow;  —  vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From   my  books    surcease  of    sorrow  —  sorrow    for    the    lost 

Lenore  — 
For    the    rare    and    radiant    maiden    whom   the    angels    name 

Lenore  — 

Nameless  here  forevermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating 

*  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door  — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door ; 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ;  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"  Sir,"  said  I,  "or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore ; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping. 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber  door,. 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  "  —  here  I  opened  wide 
the  door ; — 

Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there  wondering, 

fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to  dream 

before ; 


230     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token, 
And  the   only   word  there   spoken  was   the  whispered  word, 

"  Lenore ! " 
This   I   whispered,   and   an   echo   murmured   back    the  word, 

"  Lenore !  " 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"   said   I,   "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window 

lattice ; 

Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore  — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery  explore ;  — 
'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;   not  a  minute  stopped  or 

stayed  he ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber 

door  — 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door  — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "  art 

sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the  Nightly 

shore  — 
Tell  me   what   thy  lordly  name  is  on   the   Night's  Plutonian 

shore  1 " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  231 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning  —  little  relevancy  bore  ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber  door, 
With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour, 
Nothing    further   then   he    uttered  —  not    a   feather   then   he 

fluttered  — 
Till   I   scarcely  more  than  muttered,  — "  Other  friends  have 

flown  before  — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have  flown 

before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one  burden 

bore  — 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore 
Of  '  Never  —  nevermore.'  " 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  fancy  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird,  and  bust 

and  door; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore  — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,   gaunt,   and  ominous  bird 

of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 


232     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's 

core  ; 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamplight  gloated  o'er, 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamplight  gloating  o'er, 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore  ! 

Then,   methought,   the  air   grew   denser,    perfumed   from   an 

unseen  censer 

Swung  by  seraphim  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
"  Wretch,"  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee  —  by  these  angels 

he  hath  sent  thee 

Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore ; 

Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore  1" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"Prophet  I"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!   prophet  still,  if  bird  or 

devil !  — 
Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here 

ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted  — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted  —  tell  me  truly,  I  implore  — 
Is   there  —  is  there  balm   in   Gilead  ?  —  tell  me  —  tell   me,    I 

implore !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil !  —  prophet  still,  if  bird  or 

devil ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us  —  by  that  God  we  both 

adore  — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  233 

It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  — 

Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore ! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

''  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend !  "   I  shrieked, 

upstarting  — 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plutonian 

shore ! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  ! — quit  the  bust  above  my  door! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off 

my  door !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door  ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on 

the  floor; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore  1 


ULALUME 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober ; 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere, 

The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere ; 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year ; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir : 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 


234     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic 

Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  Soul  — 
Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 
As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll, 
As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 
In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole, 

That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 


Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober, 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere, 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere, 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 

And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year, 
(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year !) 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber 

(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  here), 

Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber 

Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 


And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent 
And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, 
As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn, 

At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 
And  nebulous  luster  was  born, 

Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 
Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn, 

Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 

Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE  235 

And  I  said  —  "  She  is  warmer  than  Dian : 

She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs, 

She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs : 
She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 

These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 
And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 

To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies, 

To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies : 
Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes  : 
Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 

With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 


But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said  —  "  Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust, 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust : 

Oh,  hasten  !  —  oh,  let  us  not  linger ! 

Oh,  fly  !  —  let  us  fly  I  —  for  we  must." 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 

Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust ; 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 

Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust, 
Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 


I  replied  —  "  This  is  nothing  but  dreaming : 
Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light ! 
Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light ! 

Its  sibyllic  splendor  is  beaming 

With  hope  and  in  beauty  to-night : 

See,  it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the  night ! 

Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 


236     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright : 
We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 
That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright, 
Since  it  flickers  up  to  Heaven  through  the  night." 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom, 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb, 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb ; 

And  I  said  —  "  What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb  ? " 
She  replied  —  "  Ulalume  —  Ulalume  — 
'T  is  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume  !  " 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 

As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere, 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere, 

And  I  cried  —  "  It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I  journeyed  —  I  journeyed  down  here, 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here  : 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here  ? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir : 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE  237 

ANNABEL  LEE 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love  — 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee  — 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 


And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulcher 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 


The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 
Went  envying  her  and  me  — 

Yes !  —  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 

That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 
Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 


SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we  — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we  — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  : 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  : 
And  so,  all  the  nighttide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling  —  my  darling  —  my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulcher  there  by  the  sea  — 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


ELDORADO 

Gayly  bedight, 

A  gallant  knight, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 

Had  journeyed  long, 

Singing  a  song, 
In  search  of  Eldorado. 

But  he  grew  old, 

This  knight  so  bold, 
And  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 

Fell  as  he  found 

No  spot  of  ground 
That  looked  like  Eldorado. 


EDGAR  ALLAN    POE  239 

And,  as  his  strength 

Failed  him  at  length, 
He  met  a  pilgrim  shadow : 

"  Shadow/'  said  he, 

"  Where  can  it  be, 
This  land  of  Eldorado  ?  " 

"  Over  the  Mountains 

Of  the  Moon, 
Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 

Ride,  boldly  ride," 

The  shade  replied, 
"  If  you  seek  for  Eldorado  !  " 


PART  II.  POETRY  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 


JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

[James  Ryder  Randall  was  born  in  Baltimore,  Maryland,  in  1839. 
After  being  educated  at  Georgetown  College  he  entered  business  in 
Baltimore,  but  finally  drifted  into  teaching  and  became  professor  of 
literature  at  Poydras  College  in  Louisiana.  In  his  latter  years  he 
was  connected  with  The  Chronicle  of  Augusta,  Georgia,  where  he 
died  in  1 908.  During  the  war  he  wrote  several  excellent  war  poems, 
and  after  the  war  he  continued  to  write  verse  in  connection  with  his 
newspaper  work.] 

MY  MARYLAND 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland  I 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 
240 


JAMES   RYDER   RANDALL  241 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Come  !  't  is  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain,  — 
"  Sic  semper!"  'tis  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come  !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 


242     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng 
Stalking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song, 
Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo  !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  I 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb ; 
Huzza  I  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum  ! 
She  breathes !  She  burns !  She  '11  come !  She  '11  come ! 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 


JAMES   RYDER   RANDALL  243 

JOHN  PELHAM 

Just  as  the  spring  came  laughing  through  the  strife, 

With  all  its  gorgeous  cheer, 
In  the  bright  April  of  historic  life 

Fell  the  great  cannoneer. 

The  wondrous  lulling  of  a  hero's  breath 

His  bleeding  country  weeps  ; 
Hushed,  in  the  alabaster  arms  of  Death, 

Our  young  Marcellus  sleeps. 

Nobler  and  grander  than  the  child  of  Rome, 

Curbing  his  chariot  steeds, 
The  knightly  scion  of  a  Southern  home 

Dazzled  the  land  with  deeds. 

Gentlest  and  bravest  in  the  battle-brunt  — 

The  Champion  of  the  Truth  — 
He  bore  his  banner  to  the  very  front 

Of  our  immortal  youth. 

A  clang  of  sabers  mid  Virginian  snow, 

The  fiery  pang  of  shells,  — 
And  there 's  a  wail  of  immemorial  woe 

In  Alabama  dells : 

The  pennon  droops,  that  led  the  sacred  band 

Along  the  crimson  field  ; 
The  meteor  blade  sinks  from  the  nerveless  hand, 

Over  the  spotless  shield. 


244     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

We  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  beauteous  face, 

While,  round  the  lips  and  eyes, 
Couched  in  their  marble  slumber,  flashed  the  grace 

Of  a  divine  surprise. 

O  mother  of  a  blessed  soul  on  high, 

Thy  tears  may  soon  be  shed ! 
Think  of  thy  boy,  with  princes -of  the  sky, 

Among  the  Southern  dead. 

How  must  he  smile  on  this  dull  world  beneath, 

Fevered  with  swift  renown,  — 
He,  with  the  martyr's  amaranthine  wreath, 

Twining  the  victor's  crown  ! 

ALBERT  PIKE 

[For  sketch  of  Pike  see  page  198.] 
DIXIE 

Southrons,  hear  your  country  call  you  ! 
Up,  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you  ! 

To  arms  !  To  arms  !  To  arms,  in  Dixie  ! 
Lo  !  all  the  beacon  fires  are  lighted,  — 
Let  all  hearts  be  now  united  ! 

To  arms  !  To  arms  !  To  arms,  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Hurrah !  hurrah ! 
For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 

And  live  or  die  for  Dixie  1 
To  arms  !    To  arms  ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 
To  arms  !    To  arms  ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie ! 


HARRY  MCCARTHY  245 

Hear  the  Northern  thunders  mutter ! 
Northern  flags  in  South  winds  flutter ! 
Send  them  back  your  fierce  defiance ! 
Stamp  upon  the  accursed  alliance  ! 

Fear  no  danger !    Shun  no  labor ! 
Lift  up  rifle,  pike,  and  saber ! 
Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder, 
Let  the  odds  make  each  heart  bolder ! 

How  the  South's  great  heart  rejoices 
At  your  cannons'  ringing  voices  ! 
For  faith  betrayed,  and  pledges  broken, 
Wrong  inflicted,  insults  spoken. 

Strong  as  lions,  swift  as  eagles, 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles ! 

Cut  the  unequal  bonds  asunder ! 

Let  them  hence  each  other  plunder ! 

Swear  upon  your  country's  altar 
Never  to  submit  or  falter, 
Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated, 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed. 


HARRY  MCCARTHY 

[Harry  McCarthy  was  an  Irish  actor  who  enlisted  in  the  Con 
federate  army  from  Arkansas.  After  a  time  he  was  granted  a  dis 
charge  and  continued  his  career  as  an  actor  in  Richmond  and  other 
places.  Little  is  known  of  his  subsequent  career.  He  wrote  other 
war  poems,  but  none  attained  the  popularity  of  "  The  Bonnie  Blue 
Flag."] 


246     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG 

We  are  a  band  of  brothers,  and  native  to  the  soil, 
Fighting  for  our  liberty,  with  treasure,  blood,  and  toil ; 

And  when  our  rights  were  threatened,  the  cry   rose  near 
and  far: 

Hurrah  for  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  Single  Star ! 

Chorus 

Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  for  Southern  rights,  Hurrah  ! 

Hurrah  for  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  Single  Star ! 

As  long  as  the  Union  was  faithful  to  her  trust, 

Like  friends  and  like  brethren  kind  were  we  and  just ; 

But  now  when  Northern  treachery  attempts  our  rights  to  mar, 
We  hoist  on  high  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  Single 
Star.  —  Chorus 

First  gallant  South  Carolina  nobly  made  the  stand ; 

Then  came  Alabama,  who  took  her  by  the  hand ; 
Next,  quickly  Mississippi,  Georgia,  and  Florida, 
All  raised  on  high  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  Single 
Star.  —  Chorus 

Ye  men  of  valor,  gather  round  the  banner  of  the  right, 

Texas  and  fair  Louisiana,  join  us  in  the  fight : 

Davis,  our  loved  President,  and  Stephens,  statesman  rare, 
Now  rally  round  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  Single 
Star.  —  Chorus 

And  here  's  to  brave  Virginia !  The  Old  Dominion  State 
With  the  young  Confederacy  at  length  has  linked  her  fate ; 
Impelled  by  her  example,  now  other  States  prepare 
To  hoist  on  high  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  Single 
Star.  —  Chorus 


JOHN   ESTEN    COOKE  247 

Then  cheer,  boys,  cheer,  raise  the  joyous  shout, 
For  Arkansas  and  North  Carolina  now  have  both  gone  out ; 
And  let  another  rousing  cheer  for  Tennessee  be  given  — 
The  Single  Star  of  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  has  grown  to  be 
eleven. — Chorus 

Then,  here  's  to  our  Confederacy  ;  strong  we  are  and  brave, 
Like  patriots  of  old  we  '11  fight  our  heritage  to  save ; 

And  rather  than  submit  to  shame,  to  die  we  would  prefer  — 
So  cheer  again  for  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  Single 
Star! 

Chorus 

Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  for  Southern  rights,  Hurrah  ! 
Hurrah!  for  the  Bonnie  Blue. Flag  has  gained  the  Eleventh 
Star. 


JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE 

[For  biographical  note  in  regard  to  John  Esten  Cooke  see  page  1 23.] 

THE  BAND  IN  THE  PINES 
Heard  after  Pelham  died 

Oh,  band  in  the  pine  wood  cease ! 

Cease  with  your  splendid  call ; 
The  living  are  brave  and  noble, 

But  the  dead  are  bravest  of  all ! 

They  throng  to  the  martial  summons, 

To  the  loud  triumphant  strain, 
And  the  dear  bright  eyes  of  long  dead  friends 

Come  to  the  heart  again ! 


248     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

They  come  with  the  ringing  bugle, 
And  the  deep  drums'  mellow  roar ; 

Till  the  soul  is  faint  with  longing 
For  the  hands  we  clasp  no  more ! 

Oh,  band  in  the  pine  wood  cease ! 

Or  the  heart  will  melt  with  tears, 
For  the  gallant  eyes  and  the  smiling  lips, 

And  the  voices  of  old  years. 


JOHN  REUBEN  THOMPSON 

[John   Reuben  Thompson  was  born  in   Richmond,  Virginia,  in 
1823.    After  graduating  from  the  University  of  Virginia,  he  studied 

law  and  settled  in  Richmond. 
His  interest  in  literary  pursuits 
caused  him,  however,  to  turn 
aside  from  law  in  1847  to  the 
editorship  of  the  Southern 
Literary  Messenger.  In  1859 
he  moved  to  Augusta,  Georgia, 
to  become  editor  of  The  South 
ern  Field  and  Fireside.  Be 
ing  incapacitated  by  frail  health 
for  military  service,  Thompson 
went  during  the  Civil  War  to 
London,  where  he  wrote  articles 
for  English  magazines  in  de 
fense  of  the  Confederacy.  In 
1 866  he  became  literary  editor 
of  the  New  York  Evening  Post, 
JOHN  REUBEN  THOMPSON  and  is  said  to  have  been  one 

of  the  two  most  distinguished 

occupants  of  that  position.    He  died  in  New  York  in   1873.     His 
poems  have  unfortunately  never  been  collected  in  book  form.] 


JOHN   REUBEN   THOMPSON  249 

ASHBY 

To  the  brave  all  homage  render ! 

Weep,  ye  skies  of  June ! 
With  a  radiance  pure  and  tender, 

Shine,  O  saddened  moon ; 
"  Dead  upon  the  field  of  glory  /"  — 
Hero  fit  for  song  and  story  — 

Lies  our  bold  dragoon  ! 

Well  they  learned,  whose  hands  have  slain  him, 

Braver,  knightlier  foe 
Never  fought  'gainst  Moor  nor  Paynim  — 

Rode  at  Templestowe : 
With  a  mien  how  high  and  joyous, 
'Gainst  the  hordes  that  would  destroy  us, 

Went  he  forth,  we  know. 

Nevermore,  alas  !  shall  saber 

Gleam  around  his  crest  — 
Fought  his  fight,  fulfilled  his  labor, 

Stilled  his  manly  breast  — 
All  unheard  sweet  Nature's  cadence, 
Trump  of  fame  and  voice  of  maidens, 

Now  he  takes  his  rest. 

Earth,  that  all  too  soon  hath  bound  him, 

Gently  wrap  his  clay  ! 
Linger  lovingly  around  him, 

Light  of  dying  day  ! 
Softly  fall  the  summer  showers  — 
Birds  and  bees  among  the  flowers 

Make  the  gloom  seem  gay  ! 


250     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN   SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

There,  throughout  the  coming  ages, 

When  his  sword  is  rust, 
And  his  deeds  in  classic  pages  — 

Mindful  of  her  trust, 
Shall  Virginia,  bending  lowly, 
Still  a  ceaseless  vigil  holy 

Keep  above  his  dust ! 

MUSIC  IN  CAMP 

Two  armies  covered  hill  and  plain, 

Where  Rappahannock's  waters 
Ran  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  stain 

Of  battle's  recent  slaughters. 

The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  tents 

In  meads  of  heavenly  azure ; 
And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 

Slept  in  its  hid  embrasure. 

The  breeze  so  softly  blew,  it  made 

No  forest  leaf  to  quiver ; 
And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 

Rolled  slowly  from  the  river. 

And  now,  where  circling  hills  looked  down 

With  cannon  grimly"  planted, 
O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town 

The  golden  sunset  slanted. 

When  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 
A  strain  —  now  rich,  now  tender ; 

The  music  seemed  itself  aflame 
With  day's  departing  splendor. 


JOHN   REUBEN   THOMPSON  251 

A  Federal  band,  which,  eve  and  morn, 

Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 
Had  just  struck  up,  with  flute  and  horn 

And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 

Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  banks, 

Till,  margined  by  its  pebbles, 
One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "  Yanks," 

And  one  was  gray  with  "  Rebels." 

Then  all  was  still,  and  then  the  band, 

With  movement  light  and  tricksy, 
Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 

Reverberate  with  "  Dixie." 

The  conscious  stream  with  burnished  glow- 
Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles, 

But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow 
With  yelling  of  the  Rebels. 

Again  a  pause,  and  then  again 

The  trumpets  pealed  sonorous, 
And  "  Yankee  Doodle  "  was  the  strain 

To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus. 

The  laughing  ripple  shoreward  flew, 

To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles ; 
Loud  shrieked  the  swarming  Boys  in  Blue 

Defiance  to  the  Rebels. 

And  yet  once  more  the  bugles  sang 

Above  the  stormy  riot ; 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang  — 

There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 


252     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

The  sad,  slow  stream  its  noiseless  flood 
Poured  o'er  the  glistening  pebbles  ; 

All  silent  now  the  Yankees  stood, 
And  silent  stood  the  Rebels. 

No  unresponsive  soul  had  heard 

That  plaintive  note's  appealing, 
So  deeply  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  had  stirred 

The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Or  Blue  or  Gray,  the  soldier  sees, 

As  by  the  wand  of  fairy, 
The  cottage  'neath  the  live-oak  trees, 

The  cabin  by  the  prairie. 

Or  cold  or  warm,  his  native  skies 

Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him ; 
Seen  through  the  tear-mist  in  his  eyes, 

His  loved  ones  stand  before  him. 

As  fades  the  iris  after  rain, 

In  April's  tearful  weather, 
The  vision  vanished,  as  the  strain 

And  daylight  died  together. 

But  memory,  waked  by  music's  art 

Expressed  in  simplest  numbers, 
Subdued  the  sternest  Yankee's  heart, 

Made  light  the  Rebel's  slumbers. 

And  fair  the  form  of  music  shines, 

That  bright,  celestial  creature, 
Who  still,  'mid  war's  embattled  lines, 

Gave  this  one  touch  of  Nature. 


JOHN   REUBEN   THOMPSON  253 

THE  BURIAL  OF  LATANE 

The  combat  raged  not  long,  but  ours  the  day ; 

And  through  the  hosts  that  compassed  us  around 
Our  little  band  rode  proudly  on  its  way, 

Leaving  one  gallant  comrade,  glory-crowned, 
Unburied  on  the  field  he  died  to  gain, 
Single  of  all  his  men  amid  the  hostile  slain. 

One  moment  on  the  battle's  edge  he  stood, 

Hope's  halo  like  a  helmet  round  his  hair, 
The  nest  beheld  him,  dabbled  in  his  blood, 

Prostrate  in  death,  and  yet  in  death  how  fair ! 
Even  thus  he  passed  through  the  red  gate  of  strife, 
From  earthly  crowns  and  psalms  to  an  immortal  life. 

A  brother  bore  his  body  from  the  field 

And  gave  it  unto  stranger's  hands  that  closed 

The  calm,  blue  eyes  on  earth  forever  sealed, 
And  tenderly  the  slender  limbs  composed : 

Strangers,  yet  sisters,  who  with  Mary's  love, 

Sat  by  the  open  tomb  and  weeping  looked  above. 

A  little  child  strewed  roses  on  his  bier, 

Pale  roses,  not  more  stainless  than  his  soul, 

Nor  yet  more  fragrant  than  his  life  sincere 

That  blossomed  with  good  actions,  brief,  but  whole : 

The  aged  matron  and  the  faithful  slave 

Approached  with  reverent  feet  the  hero's  lowly  grave. 

No  man  of  God  might  say  the  burial  rite 

Above  the  "  rebel  "  —  thus  declared  the  foe 
That  blanched  before  him  in  the  deadly  fight, 


254     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

But  woman's  voice,  in  accents  soft  and  low, 
Trembling  with  pity,  touched  with  pathos,  read 
Over  his  hallowed  dust  the  ritual  for  the  dead. 

'  'T  is  sown  in  weakness,  it  is  raised  in  power," 

Softly  the  promise  floated  on  the  air, 
And  the  sweet  breathings  of  the  sunset  hour 

Came  back  responsive  to  the  mourner's  prayer ; 
Gently  they  laid  him  underneath  the  sod, 
And  left  him  with  his  fame,  his  country,  and  his  God. 

Let  us  not  weep  for  him  whose  deeds  endure, 
So  young,  so  brave,  so  beautiful,  he  died ; 

As  he  had  wished  to  .die ;  the  past  is  sure, 
Whatever  yet  of  sorrow  may  betide 

Those  who  still  linger  by  the  stormy  shore, 

Change  cannot  harm  him  now  nor  fortune  touch  him  more. 

And  when  Virginia,  leaning  on  her  spear, 

Victrix  et  vidua,  the  conflict  done, 
Shall  raise  her  mailed  hand  to  wipe  the  tear 

That  starts  as  she  recalls  each  martyred  son, 
No  prouder  memory  her  breast  shall  sway, 
Than  thine,  our  early-lost,  lamented  Latane. 


WILLIAM  GORDON  McCABE 

[William  Gordon  McCabe  was  born  at  Richmond,  Virginia,  in 
1841.  During  the  war  he  served  in  the  artillery  of  the  Army  of 
Northern  Virginia.  After  the  war  he  established  at  Petersburg, 
Virginia,  a  boys'  preparatory  school,  which  after  some  years  was 
moved  to  Richmond.  Mr.  McCabe  has  published  not  only  poems 
but  textbooks,  literary  reviews,  and  historical  articles.] 


WILLIAM   GORDON    McCABE  255 

DREAMING  IN  THE  TRENCHES 

I  picture  her  there  in  the  quaint  old  room, 
Where  the  fading  firelight  starts  and  falls, 

Alone  in  the  twilight's  tender  gloom 

With  the  shadows  that  dance  on  the  dim-lit  walls. 

Alone,  while  those  faces  look  silently  down 

From  their  antique  frames  in  a  grim  repose  — 

Slight  scholarly  Ralph  in  his  Oxford  gown, 
And  stanch  Sir  Alan,  who  died  for  Montrose. 

There  are  gallants  gay  in  crimson  and  gold, 
There  are  smiling  beauties  with  powdered  hair, 

But  she  sits  there,  fairer  a  thousandfold, 
Leaning  dreamily  back  in  her  low  armchair. 

And  the  roseate  shadows  of  fading  light 

Softly  clear  steal  over  the  sweet  young  face, 

Where  a  woman's  tenderness  blends  to-night 
With  the  guileless  pride  of  a  knightly  race. 

Her  small  hands  lie  clasped  in  a  listless  way 

On  the  old  Romance — which  she  holds  on  her  knee — 

Of  Tristram,  the  bravest  of  knights  in  the  fray, 
And  Iseult,  who  waits  by  the  sounding  sea. 

And  her  proud,  dark  eyes  wear  a  softened  look 

As  she  watches  the  dying  embers  fall : 
Perhaps  she  dreams  of  the  knight  in  the  book, 

Perhaps  of  the  pictures  that  smile  on  the  wall. 


256     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

What  fancies  I  wonder  are  thronging  her  brain, 
For  her  cheeks  flush  warm  with  a  crimson  glow ! 

Perhaps  —  ah  !  me,  how  foolish  and  vain ! 
But  I'd  give  my  life  to  believe  it  so ! 


Well,  whether  I  ever  march  home  again 
To  offer  my  love  and  a  stainless  name, 

Or  whether  I  die  at  the  head  of  my  men,  — 
I  '11  be  true  to  the  end  all  the  same. 


CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  OF  '62 

The  wintry  blast  goes  wailing  by, 
The  snow  is  falling  overhead  ; 
I  hear  the  lonely  sentry's  tread, 

And  distant  watch  fires  light  the  sky. 

Dim  forms  go  flitting  through  the  gloom ; 
The  soldiers  cluster  round  the  blaze 
To  talk  of  other  Christmas  days, 

And  softly  speak  of  home  and  home. 

My  saber  swinging  overhead 

Gleams  in  the  watch  fire's  fitful  glow, 
While  fiercely  drives  the  blinding  snow, 

And  memory  leads  me  to  the  dead. 

My  thoughts  go  wandering  to  and  fro, 
Vibrating  'twixt  the  Now  and  Then ; 
I  see  the  low-browed  home  again, 

The  old  hall  wreathed  with  mistletoe. 


WILLIAM   GORDON   McCABE  257 

And  sweetly  from  the  far-off  years 

Comes  borne  the  laughter  faint  and  low, 
The  voices  of  the  Long  Ago  ! 

My  eyes  are  wet  with  tender  tears. 

I  feel  again  the  mother-kiss, 

I  see  again  the  glad  surprise 

That  lighted  up  the  tranquil  eyes 
And  brimmed  them  o'er  with  tears  of  bliss, 

As,  rushing  from  the  old  hall  door, 

She  fondly  clasped  her  wayward  boy  — 
Her  face  all  radiant  with  the  joy 

She  felt  to  see  him  home  once  more. 

My  saber  swinging  on  the  bough 

Gleams  in  the  watch  fire's  fitful  glow, 
While  fiercely  drives  the  blinding  snow 

Aslant  upon  my  saddened  brow. 

Those  cherished  faces  all  are  gone ! 
Asleep  within  the  quiet  graves 
Where  lies  the  snow  in  drifting  waves,  — 

And  I  am  sitting  here  alone. 

There  's  not  a  comrade  here  to-night 

But  knows  that  loved  ones  far  away 
On  bended  knees  this  night  will  pray : 

"  God  bring  our  darling  from  the  fight." 

But  there  are  none  to  wish  me  back, 

For  me  no  yearning  prayers  arise. 

The  lips  are  mute  and  closed  the  eyes  — 
My  home  is  in  the  bivouac. 


258,    SOUTHERN   LIFE   IN   SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

JOHN  PEGRAM 

What  shall  we  say  now  of  our  gentle  knight  ? 

Or  how  express  the  measure  of  our  woe 
For  him  who  rode  the  foremost  in  the  fight, 

Whose  good  blade  flashed  so  far  amid  the  foe  ? 

Of  all  his  knightly  deeds  what  need  to  tell  — 

That  good  blade  now  lies  fast  within  its  sheath  — 

What  can  we  do  but  point  to  where  he  fell, 
And,  like  a  soldier,  met  a  soldier's  death. 

We  sorrow  not  as  those  who  have  no  hope, 
For  he  was  pure  in  heart  as  brave  in  deed  — 

God  pardon  us,  if  blind  with  tears  we  grope, 

And  love  be  questioned  by  the  hearts  that  bleed. 

And  yet  —  O  foolish  and  of  little  faith  !  — 

We  cannot  choose  but  weep  our  useless  tears  — 

We  loved  him  so !  we  never  dreamed  that  Death 
Would  dare  to  touch  him  in  his  brave  young  years. 

Ah !  dear  bronzed  face,  so  fearless  and  so  bright ! 

As  kind  to  friend  as  thou  wast  stern  to  foe  — 
No  more  we  '11  see  thee  radiant  in  the  fight, 

The  eager  eyes  —  the  flush  on  cheek  and  brow. 

No  more  we  '11  greet  the  lithe,  familiar  form 

Amid  the  surging  smoke  with  deaf 'ning  cheer  — 

No  more  shall  soar  above  the  iron  storm 

Thy  ringing  voice  in  accents  sweet  and  clear. 


JOHN   WILLIAMSON    PALMER  259 

Aye !  he  has  fought  the  fight  and  passed  away  — 
Our  grand  young  leader  smitten  in  the  strife, 

So  swift  to  seize  the  chances  of  the  fray, 
And  careless  only  of  his  noble  life. 

He  is  not  dead  but  sleepeth !    Well  we  know 
The  form  that  lies  to-day  beneath  the  sod 

Shall  rise  what  time  the  golden  bugles  blow 

And  pour  their  music  through  the  courts  of  God. 

And  there  amid  our  great  heroic  dead, 

The  war-worn  sons  of  God  whose  work  is  done!  — 

His  face  shall  shine,  as  they  \vith  stately  tread 
In  grand  review  sweep  past  the  jasper  throne. 

Let  not  our  hearts  be  troubled  !    Few  and  brief 
His  days  were  here,  yet  rich  in  love  and  faith ; 

Lord,  we  believe,  help  Thou  our  unbelief, 

And  grant  Thy  servants  such  a  life  and  death ! 

JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER 

[John  Williamson  Palmer  was  born  in  Baltimore,  Maryland,  in 
1825.  After  studying  medicine,  he  began  the  practice  of  his  profes 
sion  in  San  Francisco.  After  1870  he  resided  in  New  York  and 
engaged  in  general  literary  work.  For  a  time  he  was  editorially  con 
nected  with  the  Century  Dictionary.  His  collected  poems  were 
published  in  1901  under  the  title  "For  Charlie's  Sake,  and  Other 
Ballads  and  Lyrics.  He  died  in  1906."] 

STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY 

Come,  stack  arms,  men  :  pile  on  the  rails  ; 

Stir  up  the  camp  fire  bright ! 
No  growling  if  the  canteen  fails : 

We  '11  make  a  roaring  night. 


260     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along, 
There  burly  Blue  Ridge  echoes  strong 
To  swell  the  Brigade's  rousing  song, 
Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way. 


We  see  him  now  —  the  queer  slouched  hat, 

Cocked  over  his  eye  askew : 
The  shrewd,  dry  smile ;  the  speech  so  pat, 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "  Blue-light  Elder  "  knows  'em  well : 
Says  he,  "  That 's  Banks :  he  's  fond  of  shell. 
Lord  save  his  soul :  we  '11  give  him  —  "  :  well, 

That 's  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way. 

Silence  !    Ground  arms  !    Kneel  all !    Caps  off ! 

Old  Massa  's  going  to  pray. 
Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff : 

Attention  !  —  it 's  his  way. 
Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
In  forma  pauperis  to  God, 
"  Lay  bare  Thine  arm  !    Stretch  forth  Thy  rod  : 

Amen  !  "    That 's  Stonewall's  Way. 

He  's  in  the  saddle  now.    Fall  in  ! 

Steady  !  the  whole  brigade. 
Hill 's  at  the  ford,  cut  off ;  we  '11  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade. 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn  ? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn  ? 
Quick  step  !    we  're  with  him  before  morn 

That 's  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way. 


HENRY   LYNDEN    FLASH  261 

The  sun's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 

Of  morning ;  and,  By  George  ! 
Here  's  Longstreet,  struggling  in  the  lists, 

Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 
Pope  and  his  Dutchmen  !  whipped  before. 
"  Bay'nets  and  grape  !  "  hear  Stonewall  roar. 
Charge,  Stuart !    Pay  off  Ashby's  score, 

In  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way. 


Ah,  Maiden !  wait,  and  watch,  and  yearn, 
For  news  of  Stonewall's  band. 

Ah,  Widow !  read,  with  eyes  that  burn, 
That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 

Ah,  Wife !  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on ! 

Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn. 

The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born, 
That  gets  in  Stonewall's  Way. 


HENRY  LYNDEN  FLASH 

[Henry  Lynden  Flash  was  born  in  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  in  1835.  He 
was  an  officer  in  the  Confederate  army  and  after  the  war  made  his 
home  in  New  Orleans  until  1886,  when  he  removed  to  Los  Angeles, 
California.  In  1860  he  published  a  volume  entitled  "  Poems,"  but 
his  reputation  rests  chiefly  upon  several  pieces  written  in  war  time.] 

STONEWALL  JACKSON 

Not  midst  the  lightning  of  the  stormy  fight, 
Nor  in  the  rush  upon  the  vandal  foe, 

Did  kingly  Death,  with  his  resistless  might, 
Lay  the  great  leader  low. 


262     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

His  warrior  soul  its  earthly  shackles  broke 
In  the  full  sunshine  of  a  peaceful  town ; 

When  all  the  storm  was  hushed,  the  trusty  oak 
That  propped  our  cause  went  down. 

Though  his  alone  the  blood  that  flecks  the  ground, 

Recalling  all  his  grand  heroic  deeds, 
Freedom  herself  is  writhing  in  the  wound, 

And  all  the  country  bleeds. 

He  entered  not  the  Nation's  Promised  Land 
At  the  red  belching  of  the  cannon's  mouth, 

But  broke  the  House  of  Bondage  with  his  hand — 
The  Moses  of  the  South  ! 


O  gracious  God  !  not  gainless  is  the  loss  : 

A  glorious  sunbeam  gilds  thy  sternest  frown ; 

And  while  his  country  staggers  'neath  the  Cross, 
He  rises  with  the  Crown ! 


THADDEUS  OLIVER 

[Thaddeus  Oliver  was  born  in  Twiggs  County,  Georgia,  in  1826. 
He  was  an  eloquent  lawyer  and  a  gifted  man.  He  died  in  a  hospital 
at  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  in  1864.] 

ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE   POTOMAC  TO-NIGHT 

"All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 

"  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 


THADDEUS   OLIVER  263 

'T  is  nothing  —  a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 
Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 

Not  an  officer  lost  —  only  one  of  the  men, 
Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death  rattle." 


All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming ; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch  fires,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night  wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping ; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard  —  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There  's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack  —  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep  — 

For  their  mother  —  mav  Heaven  defend  her  ! 


The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips  —  when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 


264     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine  tree  — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark  !  was  it  the  night  wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  —  "Ah  !  Mary,  good-by  !  " 

And  the  lifeblood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 
No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 

While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead  — 
The  picket 's  off  duty  forever. 


MARIE  RAVENEL  DE  LA  COSTE 

[Marie  Ravenel  de  la  Coste  was  born  of  French  parents  in 
Savannah,  Georgia,  where  the  greater  part  of  her  early  life  was 
spent.  Her  life  has  been  devoted  to  teaching  French,  and  the 
writing  of  poetry  has  been  merely  an  incidental  matter  with  her. 
Owing  to  her  reticence  about  herself,  it  is  not  possible  to  give  fuller 
biographical  details.] 

SOMEBODY'S  DARLING 

Into  a  ward  of  the  whitewashed  walls 

Where  the  dead  and  the  dying  lay, 
Wounded  by  bayonets,  shells,  and  balls, 

Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one  day. 
Somebody's  darling,  so  young  and  brave, 

Wearing  still  on  his  pale,  sweet  face  — 
Soon  to  be  hid  by  the  dust  of  the  grave  — 

The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's  grace. 


MARIE  RAVENEL   DE   LA   COSTE  26' 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold 

Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  young  brow ; 
Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mold, 

Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 
Back  from  the  beautiful  blue-veined  brow 

Brush  every  wandering  silken  thread, 
Cross  his  hands  on  his  bosom  now  — 

Somebodv's  darling  is  still  and  dead ! 


Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake ; 

Murmur  a  prayer  both  soft  and  low ; 
One  bright  curl  from  its  fair  mates  take  — 

They  were  somebody's  .pride,  you  know. 
Somebody's  hand  has  rested  there ; 

Was  it  a  mother's  soft  and  white  ? 
Or  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 

Been  baptized  in  those  waves  of  light  ? 

God  knows  best !    He  was  somebody's  love ; 

Somebody's  heart  enshrined  him  there  — 
Somebody  wafted  his  name  above, 

Night  and  morn,  on  the  wings  of  prayer. 
Somebody  wept  when  he  marched  away, 

Looking  so  handsome,  brave,  and  grand ; 
Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay, 

Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand. 

Somebody  's  watching  and  waiting  for  him, 
Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  her  heart ; 

And  there  he  lies  —  with  his  blue  eyes  dim, 
And  the  smiling,  childlike  lips  apart. 


266     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead, 
Pausing  to  drop  on  his  grave  a  tear ; 

Carve  on  the  wooden  slab  o'er  his  head, 
"Somebody's  darling  slumbers  here." 


CAROLINE  AUGUSTA  BALL 

[Caroline  A.  Ball  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  in  1823. 
She  spent  the  early  years  of  her  life  in  the  North,  but  in  her  young 
womanhood  she  returned  to  Charleston.  Here  she  married  Mr.  Isaac 
Ball  and  bore  a  conspicuous  part  in  the  social  life  of  Charleston.  She 
published  in  1 866  her  small  volume  of  poetry  under  the  title  "  The 
Jacket  of  Gray,  and  Other  Poems."] 

THE  JACKET  OF  GRAY 

Fold  it  up  carefully,  lay  it  aside, 
Tenderly  touch  it,  look  on  it  with  pride ; 
For  dear  must  it  be  to  our  hearts  evermore, 
The  jacket  of  gray  our  loved  soldier  boy  wore. 

Can  we  ever  forget  when  he  joined  the  brave  band, 
Who  rose  in  defense  of  dear  Southern  land ; 
And  in  his  bright  youth  hurried  on  to  the  fray ; 
How  proudly  he  donned  it,  —  the  jacket  of  gray  ? 

His  fond  mother  blessed  him  and  looked  up  above, 
Commending  to  Heaven  the  child  of  her  love ; 
What  anguish  was  hers  mortal  tongue  may  not  say, 
When  he  passed  from-  her  sight  in  the  jacket  of  gray. 

But  her  country  had  called  him,  she  would  not  repine, 
Though  costly  the  sacrifice  placed  on  its  shrine ; 
Her  heart's  dearest  hopes  on  its  altar  she  lay, 
When  she  sent  out  her  boy  in  his  jacket  of  gray  1 


CAROLINE  A.  BALL  267 

Months  passed,  and  war's  thunders  rolled  over  the  land, 
Unsheathed  was  the  sword  and  lighted  the  brand ; 
\Ye  heard  in  the  distance  the  noise  of  the  fray, 
And  prayed  for  our  boy  in  the  jacket  of  gray. 

Ah !  vain  all  —  all  vain  were  our  prayers  and  our  tears, 
The  glad  shout  of  victory  rang  in  our  ears ; 
But  our  treasured  one  on  the  cold  battlefield  lay, 
While  the  lifeblood  oozed  out  on  the  jacket  of  gray. 

His  young  comrades  found  him  and  tenderly  bore 
His  cold,  lifeless  form  to  his  home  by  the  shore ; 
Oh,  dark  were  our  hearts  on  that  terrible  day 
When  we  saw  our  dead  boy  in  the  jacket  of  gray. 

Ah !  spotted  and  tattered  and  stained  now  with  gore 
Was  the  garment  which  once  he  so  proudly  wore. 
We  bitterly  wept  as  we  took  it  away, 
And  replaced  with  death's  white  robe  the  jacket  of  gray. 

We  laid  him  to  rest  in  his  cold,  narrow  bed, 

And  graved  on  the  marble  we  placed  o'er  his  head, 

As  the  proudest  of  tributes  our  sad  hearts  could  pay,  — 

"  He  never  disgraced  the  dear  jacket  of  gray." 

Then  fold  it  up  carefully,  lay  it  aside, 
Tenderly  touch  it,  look  on  it  writh  pride ; 
For  dear  must  it  be  to  our  hearts  evermore. 
The  jacket  of  gray  our  loved  soldier  boy  wore. 


268     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 


MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON 

[Mrs.  Margaret  Junkin  Preston  was  born  in  Milton,  Pennsylvania, 
in  1 820.  In  1 848  her  father  became  President  of  Washington  College 
(now  Washington  and  Lee  University),  and  Lexington,  Virginia,  be 
came  thereafter  the  home  of  the  family.  In  1857  she  married  Pro 
fessor  T.  L.  Preston,  of  the  Virginia  Military  Institute  at  Lexington. 
The  rest  of  her  life  was  spent  in  Lexington,  with  the  exception  of  a 
few  years  toward  the  end  in  Baltimore.  It  was  in  the  latter  city  that 
she  died,  in  1897.] 

GONE  FORWARD1 

Yes,  "  Let  the  tent  be  struck  "  :  Victorious  morning 

Through  every  crevice  flashes  in  a  day 
Magnificent  beyond  all  earth's  adorning : 

The  night  is  over ;  wherefore  should  he  stay  ? 

And  wherefore  should  our  voices  choke  to  say, 
"  The  General  has  gone  forward  "  ? 

Life's  foughten  field  not  once  beheld  surrender ; 

But  with  superb  endurance,  present,  past, 
Our  pure  Commander,  lofty,  simple,  tender, 

Through  good,  through  ill,  held  his  high  purpose  fast, 

Wearing  his  armor  spotless,  —  till  at  last, 

Death  gave  the  final,  "forward" 

All  hearts  grew  sudden  palsied :  Yet  what  said  he 

Thus  summoned? —  "Let  the  tent  be  struck!" —  For  when 

Did  call  of  duty  fail  to  find  him  ready 
Nobly  to  do  his  work  in  sight  of  men, 
For  God's  and  for  his  country's  sake  —  and  then, 
To  watch,  wait,  or  go  forward  ? 

1  The  selections  from  Margaret  Junkin  Preston  are  reprinted  through  the 
courtesy  of  the  holder  of  the  copyright,  the  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


MARGARET  JUNKIN   PRESTON  269 

We  will  not  weep,  —  we  dare  not !   Such  a  story 
As  his  large  life  writes  on  the  century's  years, 

Should  crowd  our  bosoms  with  a  flush  of  glory, 
That  manhood's  type,  supremest  that  appears 
To-day,  he  shows  the  ages.    Nay,  no  tears 
Because  he  has  gone  forward  ! 


Gone  forward  ?  —  Whither  ?  —  Where  the  marshal'd  legions, 
Christ's  well-worn  soldiers,  from  their  conflicts  cease ;  — 

Where  Faith's  true  Red-Cross  knights  repose  in  regions 
Thick-studded  with  the  calm,  white  tents  of  peace,  — 
Thither,  right  joyful  to  accept  release, 

The  General  has  gone  forward! 


THE  SHADE  OF  THE  TREES 

What  are  the  thoughts  that  are  stirring  his  breast  ? 

What  is  the  mystical  vision  he  sees  ? 
"  Let  us  pass  over  the  river  and  rest 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees" 


Has  he  grown  sick  of  his  toils  and  his  tasks  ? 

Sighs  the  worn  spirit  for  respite  or  ease  ? 
Is  it  a  moment's  cool  halt  that  he  asks 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ? 


Is  it  the  gurgle  of  waters  whose  flow 

Ofttime  has  come  to  him,  borne  on  the  breeze, 
Memory  listens  to,  lapsing  so  low, 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ? 


2/0     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Nay  —  though  the  rasp  of  the  flesh  was  so  sore, 
Faith,  that  had  yearnings  far  keener  than  these, 

Saw  the  soft  sheen  of  the  Thitherward  Shore, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ;  — 

Caught  the  high  psalms  of  ecstatic  delight,  — 

Heard  the  harps  harping,  like  soundings  of  seas,  — 

Watched  earth's  assorted  ones  walking  in  white 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees. 

O,  was  it  strange  he  should  pine  for  release, 

Touched  to  the  soul  with  such  transports  as  these,  — 

He  who  so  needed  the  balsam  of  peace, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ? 

Yea,  it  was  noblest  for  him  —  it  was  best, 
(Questioning  naught  of  our  Father's  decrees), 

There  to  pass  over  the  river  and  rest 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees ! 


ANONYMOUS 
THE  SOLDIER  BOY 

I  give  my  soldier  boy  a  blade, 

In  fair  Damascus  fashioned  well ; 
Who  first  the  glittering  falchion  swayed, 

Who  first  beneath  its  fury  fell, 
I  know  not :  but  I  hope  to  know 

That  for  no  mean  or  hireling  trade, 
To  guard  no  feeling,  base  or  low, 

I  give  my  soldier  boy  a  blade. 


ANONYMOUS  2/1 

Cool,  calm,  and  clear  the  lucid  flood 

In  which  its  tempering  work  was  done ; 
As  calm,  as  cool,  as  clear  of  mood 

Be  thou  whene  'er  it  sees  the  sun ; 
For  country's  claim,  at  honor's  call, 

For  outraged  friend,  insulted  maid, 
At  mercy's  voice  to  bid  it  fall, 

I  give  my  soldier  boy  a  blade. 

The  eye  which  marked  its  peerless  edge, 

The  hand  that  weighed  its  balanced  poise, 
Anvil  and  pincers,  forge  and  wedge, 

Are  gone  with  all  their  flame  and  noise ; 
And  still  the  gleaming  sword  remains. 

So  when  in  dust  I  low  am  laid, 
Remember  by  these  heartfelt  strains 

I  give  my  soldier  boy  a  blade. 

"THE  BRIGADE  MUST  NOT  KNOW,  SIR!" 

"  Who  Ve  ye  got  there  ?  "    "  Only  a  dying  brother, 

Hurt  in  the  front  just  now." 
"  Good  boy  !  he  '11  do.    Somebody  tell  his  mother 

Where  he  was  killed,  and  how." 

"  Whom  have  you  there  ?  "  "A  crippled  courier,  Major, 

Shot  by  mistake,  we  hear. 
He  was  with  Stonewall."    "  Cruel  work  they  Ve  made  here ; 

Quick  with  him  to  the  rear !  " 

"  Well,  who  comes  next  ? "    "  Doctor,  speak  low,  speak  low,  sir ; 

Don't  let  the  men  find  out ! 
It 's  Stonewall !  "  "  God  !  "  "  The  brigade  must  not  know,  sir, 

While  there  's  a  foe  about !  " 


2/2     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Whom  have  we  here  —  shrouded  in  martial  manner, 

Crowned  with  a  martyr's  charm  ? 
A  grand  dead  hero,  in  a  living  banner, 

Born  of  his  heart  and  arm  : 


The  heart  whereon  his  cause  hung  —  see  how  clingeth 

That  banner  to  his  bier ! 
The  arm  wherewith  his  cause  struck  —  hark  !  how  ringeth 

His  trumpet  in  their  rear ! 

What  have  we  left  ?    His  glorious  inspiration, 

His  prayers  in  council  met ; 
Living,  he  laid  the  first  stones  of  a  nation ; 

And  dead,  he  builds  it  yet. 


THE  CONFEDERATE  FLAG 

No  more  o'er  human  hearts  to  wave, 
Its  tattered  folds  forever  furled : 

We  laid  it  in  an  honored  grave, 

And  left  its  memories  to  the  world. 


The  agony  of  long,  long  years, 

May,  in  a  moment,  be  compressed, 

And  with  a  grief  too  deep  for  tears, 
A  heart  may  be  oppressed. 

Oh !  there  are  those  who  die  too  late 
For  faith  in  God,  and  Right,  and  Truth, 

The  cold  mechanic  grasp  of  Fate 

Hath  crushed  the  roses  of  their  youth. 


ANONYMOUS  273 

More  blessed  are  the  dead  who  fell 

Beneath  it  in  unfaltering  trust, 
Than  we,  who  loved  it  passing  well, 

Yet  lived  to  see  it  trail  in  dust. 


It  hath  no  future  which  endears, 
And  this  farewell  shall  be  our  last : 

Embalm  it  in  a  nation's  tears, 
And  consecrate  it  to  the  past ! 

To  moldering  hands  that  to  it  clung, 
And  flaunted  it  in  hostile  faces, 

To  pulseless  arms  that  round  it  flung, 
The  terror  of  their  last  embraces  — 

To  our  dead  heroes  —  to  the  hearts 
That  thrill  no  more  to  love  or  glory, 

To  those  who  acted  well  their  parts, 
Who  died  in  youth  and  live  in  glory  - 

With  tears  forever  be  it  told, 

Until  oblivion  covers  all : 
Until  the  heavens  themselves  wear  old, 

And  totter  slowly  to  their  fall. 


LINES  ON  A  CONFEDERATE  NOTE 

Representing  nothing  on  God's  earth  now, 
And  naught  in  the  waters  below  it, 

As  the  pledge  of  a  nation  that 's  dead  and  gone, 
Keep  it,  dear  friend,  and  show  it. 


2/4     SOUTHERN   LIFE   IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

Show  it  to  those  who  will  lend  an  ear 

To  the  tale  that  this  paper  can  tell 
Of  Liberty  born  of  the  patriot's  dream, 

Of  a  storm-cradled  nation  that  fell. 


Too  poor  to  possess  the  precious  ores, 

And  too  much  of  a  stranger  to  borrow, 
We  issued  to-day  our  promise  to  pay, 

And  hoped  to  repay  on  the  morrow. 
The  days  rolled  by  and  weeks  became  years, 

But  our  coffers  were  empty  still ; 
Coin  was  so  rare  that  the  treasury  'd  quake 

If  a  dollar  should  drop  in  the  till. 

But  the  faith  that  was  in  us  was  strong,  indeed, 

And  our  poverty  well  we  discerned, 
And  this  little  check  represented  the  pay 

That  our  suffering  veterans  earned. 
We  knew  it  had  hardly  a  value  in  gold, 

Yet  as  gold  each  soldier  received  it ; 
It  gazed  in  our  eyes  with  a  promise  to  pay, 

And  each  Southern  patriot  believed  it. 

But  our  boys  thought  little  of  price  or  of  pay, 

Or  of  bills  that  were  overdue ; 
We  knew  if  it  brought  us  our  bread  to-day, 

'T  was  the  best  our  poor  country  could  do. 
Keep  it,  it  tells  all  our  history  o'er, 

From  the  birth  of  our  dream  till  the  last ; 
Modest,  and  born  of  the  angel  Hope, 

Like  our  hope  of  success,  it  passed. 


ABRAM   JOSEPH   RYAN  275 

ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN 

[Abram  Joseph  Ryan  was  born  in  Norfolk,  Virginia,  in  1839. 
He  entered  the  Roman  Catholic  priesthood  in  1861  and  was  a 
chaplain  in  the  Confederate  army.  After  the  war  his  service  to  his 
church  took  him  into  almost  every  Southern  state,  his  longest  stay 
in  any  one  place  being  twelve  years  in  Mobile,  Alabama.  During 
this  part  of  his  life  he  busied  himself  with  preaching,  lecturing, 
editing  religious  periodicals,  and  writing  verse.  Father  Ryan  died 
in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  in  1886.] 

THE  CONQUERED  BANNER 

Furl  that  Banner,  for  't  is  weary ; 
Round  its  staff  't  is  drooping  dreary ; 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best ; 
For  there 's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there  's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there  's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it ; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it ; 

Furl  it,  hide  it  —  let  it  rest ! 

Take  that  Banner  down  !  't  is  tattered  ; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered ; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh  !  't  is  hard  for  us  to  fold  it ; 
Hard  to  think  there  's  none  to  hold  it ; 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

Furl  that  Banner !  furl  it  sadly  J 
Once  ten  thousands  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly, 
Swore  it  should  forever  wave ; 


2/6     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
Till  that  flag  should  float  forever 
O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave  ! 

Furl  it !  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low ; 
And  that  Banner  —  it  is  trailing ! 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it ! 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it ! 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it ! 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it ! 
But,  oh !  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  who  furl  and  fold  it  so. 

Furl  that  Banner  !  True,  't  is  gory, 
Yet  't  is  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  't  will  live  in  song  and  story, 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust : 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages  — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly ! 
Treat  it  gently  —  it  is  holy  — 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not  —  unfold  it  never, 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  dead  ! 


ABRAM   JOSEPH   RYAN  277 

THE  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  pure  and  bright, 

Flashed  the  sword  of  Lee ! 
Far  in  the  front  of  the  deadly  fight, 
High  o'er  the  brave  in  the  cause  of  Right, 
Its  stainless  sheen,  like  a  beacon  light, 

Led  us  to  Victory. 

Out  of  its  scabbard,  where,  full  long, 

It  slumbered  peacefully. 
Roused  from  its  rest  by  the  battle's  song, 
Shielding  the  feeble,  smiting  the  strong, 
Guarding  the  right,  avenging  the  wrong, 

Gleamed  the  sword  of  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  high  in  air 

Beneath  Virginia's  sky  — 
And  they  who  saw  it  gleaming  there, 
And  knew  who  bore  it,  knelt  to  swear 
That  where  that  sword  led  they  would  dare 

To  follow  —  and  to  die. 

Out  of  its  scabbard  !    Never  hand 

Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free, 
Nor  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 
Nor  braver  bled  for  a  brighter  land, 
Nor  brighter  land  had  a  cause  so  grand, 

Nor  cause  a  chief  like  Lee  ! 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  !  how  we  prayed 

That  sword  might  victor  be; 
And  when  our  triumph  was  delayed, 


278     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

And  many  a  heart  grew  sore  afraid, 
We  still  hoped  on  while  gleamed  the  blade 
Of  noble  Robert  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  all  in  vain 
Forth  flashed  the  sword  of  Lee ; 

'T  is  shrouded  now  in  its  sheath  again, 

It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  our  noble  slain, 

Defeated,  yet  without  a  stain, 
Proudly  and  peacefully. 


HENRY  TIMROD 

[Henry  Timrod  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  in  1 829. 
On  his  father's  side  he  was  of  German  descent,  and  on  his  mother's, 

of  English.  He  was  educated 
in  Charleston  schools  and  in 
the  University  of  Georgia,  but 
was  compelled  to  leave  college 
before  taking  his  degree  on 
account  of  poverty.  Returning 
to  Charleston,  he  prepared  him 
self  for  the  practice  of  law,  but 
finding  this  distasteful,  he  be 
gan  to  fit  himself  for  a  college 
professorship.  Failing  to  se 
cure  the  position  he  sought,  he 
taught  private  classes  for  about 
ten  years.  In  the  meantime  he 
was  writing  poetry  and  con 
tributing  his  verse  to  the 
Southern  Literary  Messenger 

HENRY  TIMROD  *"*    Xlatelrs    ^«"'««-      A 

volume  of  Timrod's  verses  was 

published  in  Boston  in  1860,  but  in  the  excitement  of  those  times 
did  not  attract  widespread  attention.    At  the  outbreak  of  the  war 


HENRY  TIMROD  2/9 

Timrod  enlisted,  but  finding  his  constitution  too  weak  to  undergo 
the  hardships  of  camp  life,  he  contented  himself  with  service  as 
army  correspondent.  In  1864  he  accepted  an  appointment  as  editor 
of  the  South  Carolinian  at  Columbia.  Feeling  now  settled,  he  mar 
ried  Miss  Kate  Goodwin,  an  English  girl  resident  in  Charleston. 
But  his  happiness  was  of  brief  duration.  Disease  was  making  in 
roads  upon  his  frail  body,  the  death  of  his  young  son  added  to  his 
sorrows,  and  the  desolation  of  war  rendered  him  destitute  of  property. 
Consumption  eventually  overcame  him,  and  in  1867  he  was  laid  to 
rest.  Timrod  wrote  some  beautiful  and  enduring  lyrics  dealing  with 
love  and  nature,  but  he  most  deeply  stirred  his  generation  by  his 
martial  and  patriotic  poems.  Hence  his  sobriquet,  "  The  Laureate 
of  the  Confederacy."] 

CAROLINA1 

The  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands, 
Thy  pines  give  shelter  to  his  bands, 
Thy  sons  stand  by  with  idle  hands, 

Carolina ! 

He  breathes  at  ease  thy  airs  of  balm, 
He  scorns  the  lances  of  thy  palm ; 
Oh  !  who  shall  break  thy  craven  calm, 

Carolina ! 

Thy  ancient  fame  is  growing  dim, 
A  spot  is  on  thy  garment's  rim ; 
Give  to  the  winds  thy  battle  hymn, 

Carolina ! 

Call  on  thy  children  of  the  hill, 
Wake  swamp  and  river,  coast  and  rill, 
Rouse  all  thy  strength  and  all  thy  skill, 
Carolina ! 

1  The  selections  from   Timrod   are  reprinted  from  the  Memorial  Edition 
through  the  courtesy  of  the  holder  of  the  copyright,  B.  F.  Johnson  Publishing  Co. 


280     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Cite  wealth  and  science,  trade  and  art, 
Touch  with  thy  fire  the  cautious  mart, 
And  pour  thee  through  the  people's  heart, 

Carolina ! 

Till  even  the  coward  spurns  his  fears, 
And  all  thy  fields  and  fens  and  meres 
Shall  bristle  like  thy  palm  with  spears, 

Carolina ! 


Hold  up  the  glories  of  thy  dead ; 
Say  how  thy  elder  children  bled, 
And  point  to  Eu taw's  battle-bed, 

Carolina ! 

Tell  how  the  patriot's  soul  was  tried, 
And  what  his  dauntless  breast  defied ; 
How  Rutledge  ruled  and  Laurens  died, 

Carolina ! 

Cry !  till  thy  summons,  heard  at  last, 
Shall  fall  like  Marion's  bugle  blast 
Reechoed  from  the  haunted  Past, 

Carolina ! 


I  hear  a  murmur  as  of  waves 

That  grope  their  way  through  sunless  caves, 

Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 

Carolina ! 

And  now  it  deepens ;  slow  and  grand 
It  swells,  as,  rolling  to  the  land, 
An  ocean  broke  upon  thy  strand, 

Carolina ! 


HENRY  TIMROD  281 

Shout !  let  it  reach  the  startled  Huns  ! 
And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns ! 
It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons, 
Carolina ! 


They  will  not  wait  to  hear  thee  call ; 
From  Sachem's  Head  to  Sumter's  wall 
Resounds  the  voice  of  hut  and  hall, 

Carolina ! 

No !  thou  hast  not  a  stain,  they  say, 
Or  none  save  what  the  battle-day 
Shall  wash  in  seas  of  blood  away, 

Carolina ! 

Thy  skirts  indeed  the  foe  may  part, 
Thy  robe  be  pierced  with  sword  and  dart, 
They  shall  not  touch  thy  noble  heart, 

Carolina ! 


Ere  thou  shalt  own  the  tyrant's  thrall 
Ten  times  ten  thousand  men  must  fall ; 
Thy  corpse  may  hearken  to  his  call, 

Carolina ! 

When,  by  thy  bier,  in  mournful  throngs 
The  women  chant  thy  mortal  wrongs, 
'T  will  be  their  own  funereal  songs, 

Carolina ! 

From  thy  dead  breast  by  ruffians  trod 
No  helpless  child  shall  look  to  God ; 
All  shall  be  safe  beneath  thy  sod, 

Carolina ! 


282     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

Girt  with  such  wills  to  do  and  bear, 
Assured  in  right,  and  mailed  in  prayer, 
Thou  wilt  not  bow  thee  to  despair, 

Carolina ! 

Throw  thy  bold  banner  to  the  breeze ! 
Front  with  thy  ranks  the  threatening  seas 
Like  thine  own  proud  armorial  trees, 

Carolina! 

Fling  down  thy  gauntlet  to  the  Huns, 
And  roar  the  challenge  from  thy  guns ; 
Then  leave  the  future  to  thy  sons, 

Carolina ! 


A  CRY  TO  ARMS 

Ho  !  woodsmen  of  the  mountain  side  ! 

Ho  !  dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho  !  ye  who  by  the  chafing  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales ! 
Leave  barn  and  byre,  leave  kin  and  cot, 

Lay  by  the  bloodless  spade ; 
Let  desk,  and  case,  and  counter  rot, 

And  burn  your  books  of  trade. 

The  despot  roves  your  fairest  lands ; 

And  till  he  flies  or  fears", 
Your  fields  must  grow  but  armed  bands, 

Your  sheaves  be  sheaves  of  spears ! 
Give  up  to  mildew  and  to  rust 

The  useless  tools  of  gain  ; 
And  feed  your  country's  sacred  dust 

With  floods  of  crimson  rain  ! 


HENRY  TIMROD  283 

Come,  with  the  weapons  at  your  call  — 

With  musket,  pike,  or  knife ; 
He  wields  the  deadliest  blade  of  all 

Who  lightest  holds  his  life. 
The  arm  that  drives  its  unbought  blows 

With  all  a  patriot's  scorn, 
Might  brain  a  tyrant  with  a  rose, 

Or  stab  him  with  a  thorn. 


Does  any  falter  ?  let  him  turn 

To  some  brave  maiden's  eyes, 
And  catch  the  holy  fires  that  burn 

In  those  sublunar  skies. 
Oh  !  could  you  like  your  women  feel, 

And  in  their  spirit  march, 
A  day  might  see  your  lines  of  steel 

Beneath  the  victor's  arch. 


What  hope,  O  God  !  would  not  grow  warm 

When  thoughts  like  these  give  cheer  ? 
The  Lily  calmly  braves  the  storm, 

And  shall  the  Palm-tree  fear  ? 
No !  rather  let  its  branches  court 

The  rack  that  sweeps  the  plain ; 
And  from  the  Lily's  regal  port 

Learn  how  to  breast  the  strain ! 


Ho  !  woodsmen  of  the  mountain  side  ! 

Ho  !  dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho  !  ye  who  by  the  roaring  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales ! 


284     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Come !  flocking  gayly  to  the  fight, 

From  forest,  hill,  and  lake ; 
We  battle  for  our  Country's  right, 

And  for  the  Lily's  sake ! 


CHARLESTON 

Calm  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 

The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 
In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds, 

The  City  bides  the  foe. 

As  yet,  behind  their  ramparts  stern  and  proud, 

Her  bolted  thunders  sleep  — 
Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud, 

Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep. 

No  Calpe  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scar 

To  guard  the  holy  strand ; 
But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of  war 

Above  the  level  sand. 


And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  lie  couched, 

Unseen,  beside  the  flood  — 
Like  tigers  in  some  Orient  jungle  crouched 

That  wait  and  watch  for  blood. 

Meanwhile,  through  streets  still  echoing  with  trade, 

Walk  grave  and  thoughtful  men, 
Whose  hands  may  one  day  wield  the  patriot's  blade 

As  lightly  as  the  pen. 


HENRY   TIMROD  285 

And  maidens,  with  such  eyes  as  would  grow  dim 

Over  a  bleeding  hound, 
Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  the  strength  of  him 

Whose  sword  she  sadly  bound. 


Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home, 

Day  patient  following  day, 
Old  Charleston  looks  from  roof,  and  spire,  and  dome, 

Across  her  tranquil  bay. 


Ships,  through  a  hundred  foes,  from  Saxon  lands 

And  spicy  Indian  ports, 
Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands, 

And  Summer  to  her  courts. 


But  still,  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line, 

The  only  hostile  smoke 
Creeps  like  a  harmless  mist  above  the  brine, 

From  some  frail,  floating  oak. 


Shall  the  Spring  dawn,  and  she  still  clad  in  smiles, 

And  with  an  unscathed  brow, 
Rest  in  the  strong  arms  of  her  palm-crowned  isles, 

As  fair  and  free  as  now  ? 


We  know  not ;  in  the  temple  of  the  Fates 
God  has  inscribed  her  doom  : 

And,  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 
The  triumph  or  the  tomb. 


286     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

SPRING 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 
/ 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And  there  's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 
Of  Winter  in  the  land, 
Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn ; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 
That  age  to  childhood  bind, 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 
The  brown  of  Autumn  corn. 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom, 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 


HENRY  TIMROD  287 

Already,  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems 
Appear  some  azure  gems, 
Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala  day, 
The  forehead  of  a  fay. 

In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth 
The  crocus  breaking  earth ; 

And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white  and  green, 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  need  must  pass 
Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored  South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

Still  there  's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn ; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant ;  and  you  scarce  would  start, 

If  from  a  beech's  heart, 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 

"  Behold  me  !  I  am  May  !  " 

Ah !  who  would  couple  thoughts  of  war  and  crime 

With  such  a  blessed  time ! 

Who  in  the  west  wind's  aromatic  breath 

Could  hear  the  call  of  Death ! 


288     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Yet  not  more  surely  shall  the  Spring  awake 

The  voice  of  wood  and  brake, 

Than  she  shall  rouse,  for  all  her  tranquil  charms, 

A  million  men  to  arms. 

• 

There  shall  be  deeper  hues  upon  her  plains 
Than  all  her  sunlit  rains, 
And  every  gladdening  influence  around, 
Can  summon  from  the  ground. 

Oh  !  standing  on  this  desecrated  mold, 
Methinks  that  I  behold, 
Lifting  her  bloody  daisies  up  to  God, 
Spring  kneeling  on  the  sod, 

And  calling,  with  the  voice  of  all  her  rills, 
Upon  the  ancient  hills 

To  fall  and  crush  the  tyrants  and  the  slaves 
Who  turn  her  meads  to  graves. 


THE  COTTON   BOLL 

While  I  recline 

At  ease  beneath 

This  immemorial  pine, 

Small  sphere ! 

(By  dusky  fingers  brought  this  morning  here 

And  shown  with  boastful  smiles), 

I  turn  thy  cloven  sheath, 

Through  which  the  soft  white  fibers  peer, 

That,  with  their  gossamer  bands, 

Unite,  like  love,  the  sea-divided  lands, 

And  slowly,  thread  by  thread, 


HENRY   TIMROD  289 

Draw  forth  the  folded  strands, 

Than  which  the  trembling  line, 

By  whose  frail  help  yon  startled  spider  fled 

Down  the  tall  spear  grass  from  his  swinging  bed, 

Is  scarce  more  fine ; 

And  as  the  tangled  skein 

Unravels  in  my  hands, 

Betwixt  me  and  the  noonday  light, 

A  veil  seems  lifted,  and  for  miles  and  miles 

The  landscape  broadens  on  my  sight, 

As,  in  the  little  boll,  there  lurked  a  spell 

Like  that  which,  in  the  ocean  shell, 

With  mystic  sound, 

Breaks  down  the  narrow  walls  that  hem  us  round, 

And  turns  some  city  lane 

Into  the  restless  main, 

With  all  his  capes  and  isles ! 

Yonder  bird, 

Which  floats,  as  if  at  rest, 

In  those  blue  tracts  above  the  thunder,  where 

No  vapors  cloud  the  stainless  air, 

And  never  sound  is  heard, 

Unless  at  such  rare  time 

When,  from  the  City  of  the  Blest, 

Rings  down  some  golden  chime, 

Sees  not  from  his  high  place 

So  vast  a  cirque  of  summer  space 

As  widens  round  me  in  one  mighty  field, 

Which,  rimmed  by  seas  and  sands, 

Doth  hail  its  earliest  daylight  in  the  beams 

Of  gray  Atlantic  dawns ; 

And,  broad  as  realms  made  up  of  many  lands, 


290     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Is  lost  afar 

Behind  the  crimson  hills  and  purple  lawns 

Of  sunset,  among  plains  which  roll  their  streams 

Against  the  Evening  Star  ! 

And  lo ! 

To  the  remotest  point  of  sight, 

Although  I  gaze  upon  no  waste  of  snow, 

The  endless  field  is  white ; 

And  the  whole  landscape  glows, 

For  many  a  shining  league  away, 

With  such  accumulated  light 

As  Polar  lands  would  flash  beneath  a  tropic  day ! 

Nor  lack  there  (for  the  vision  grows, 

And  the  small  charm  within  my  hands  — 

More  potent  even  than  the  fabled  one, 

Which  oped  whatever  golden  mystery 

Lay  hid  in  fairy  wood  or  magic  vale, 

The  curious  ointment  of  the  Arabian  tale  — 

Beyond  all  mortal  sense 

Doth  stretch  my  sight's  horizon,  and  I  see, 

Beneath  its  simple  influence, 

As  if  with  Uriel's  crown, 

I  stood  in  some  great  temple  of  the  Sun, 

And  looked,  as  Uriel,  down  !) 

Nor  lack  there  pastures  rich  and  fields  all  green 

With  all  the  common  gifts  of  God, 

For  temperate  airs  and  torrid  sheen 

')  (^Weave  Edens  of  the  sod ; 

//  J  Through  lands  which  look  one  sea  of  billowy  gold 

*  X/    Broad  rivers  wind  their  devious  ways : 

Ji\ 

f      j  A  hundred  isles  in  their  embraces  fold 


^j         /  A  hundred  luminous  bays  ; 
0          \  And  through  yon  purple  haze 


HENRY   TIMROD  291 

Vast  mountains  lift  their  plumed  peaks  cloud-crowned ; 

And,  save  where  up  their  sides  the  plowman  creeps, 

An  unhewn  forest  girds  them  grandly  round, 

In  whose  dark  shades  a  future  navy  sleeps ! 

Ye  Stars,  which,  though  unseen,  yet  with  me  gaze 

Upon  this  loveliest  fragment  of  the  earth ! 

Thou  Sun,  that  kindlest  all  thy  gentlest  rays 

Above  it,  as  to  light  a  favorite  hearth ! 

Ye  Clouds,  that  in  your  temples  in  the  West 

See  nothing  brighter  than  its  humblest  flowers ! 

And  you,  ye  Winds,  that  on  the  ocean's  breast 

Are  kissed  to  coolness  ere  ye  reach  its  bowers ! 

Bear  witness  with  me  in  my  song  of  praise, 

And  tell  the  world  that,  since  the  world  began, 

No  fairer  land  hath  fired  a  poet's  lays, 

Or  given  a  home  to  man  ! 

But  these  are  charms  already  widely  blown ! 

His  be  the  meed  whose  pencil's  trace 

Hath  touched  our  very  swamps  with  grace, 

And  round  whose  tuneful  way 

All  Southern  laurels  bloom  ; 

The  Poet  of  "  The  Woodlands,"  unto  whom 

Alike  are  known 

The  flute's  low  breathing  and  the  trumpet's  tone, 

And  the  soft  west  wind's  sighs ; 

But  who  shall  utter  all  the  debt, 

O  land  wherein  all  powers  are  met 

That  bind  a  people's  heart, 

The  world  doth  owe  thee  at  this  day, 

And  which  it  never  can  repay, 

Yet  scarcely  deigns  to  own ! 

Where  sleeps  the  poet  who  shall  fitly  sing 

The  source  wherefrom  doth  spring 


2Q2     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

That  mighty  commerce  which,  confined 

To  the  mean  channels  of  no  selfish  mart, 

Goes  out  to  every  shore 

Of  this  broad  earth,  and  throngs  the  sea  with  ships 

That  bear  no  thunders ;  hushes  hungry  lips 

In  alien  lands ; 

Joins  with  a  delicate  web  remotest  strands ; 

And  gladdening  rich  and  poor, 

Doth  gild  Parisian  domes, 

Or  feed  the  cottage  smoke  of  English  homes, 

And  only  bounds  its  blessings  by  mankind ! 

In  offices  like  these,  thy  mission  lies, 

My  Country !  and  it  shall  not  end 

As  long  as  rain  shall  fall  and  Heaven  bend 

In  blue  above  thee ;  though  thy  foes  be  hard 

And  cruel  as  their  weapons,  it  shall  guard 

Thy  hearth-stones  as  a  bulwark ;  make  thee  great 

In  white  and  bloodless  state ; 

And  haply,  as  the  years  increase  — 

Still  working  through  its  humbler  reach 

With  that  large  wisdom  which  the  ages  teach  — 

Revive  the  half -dead  dream  of  universal  peace ! 

As  men  who  labor  in  that  mine 

Of  Cornwall,  hollowed  out  beneath  the  bed 

Of  ocean,  when  a  storm  rolls  overhead, 

Hear  the  dull  booming  of  the  world  of  brine 

Above  them,  and  a  mighty  muffled  roar 

Of  winds  and  waters,  yet  toil  calmly  on, 

And  split  the  rock,  and  pile  the  massive  ore, 

Or  carve  a  niche,  or  shape  the  arched  roof ; 

So  I,  as  calmly,  weave  my  woof 

Of  song,  chanting  the  days  to  come, 

Unsilenced,  though  the  quiet  summer  air 


HENRY   TIMROD  293 

Stirs  with  the  bruit  of  battles,  and  each  dawn 

Wakes  from  its  starry  silence  to  the  hum 

Of  many  gathering  armies.    Still, 

In  that  \ve  sometimes  hear, 

Upon  the  Northern  winds,  the  voice  of  woe 

Not  wholly  drowned  in  triumph,  though  I  know 

The  end  must  crown  us,  and  a  few  brief  years 

Dry  all  our  tears, 

I  may  not  sing  too  gladly.    To  thy  will 

Resigned,  O  Lord  !  we  cannot  all  forget 

That  there  is  much  even  Victory  must  regret. 

And,  therefore,  not  too  long 

From  the  great  burthen  of  our  country's  wrong 

Delay  our  just  release  ! 

And,  if  it  may  be,  save 

These  sacred  fields  of  peace 

From  stain  of  patriot  or  of  hostile  blood ! 

Oh,  help  us,  Lord !  to  roll  the  crimson  flood 

Back  on  its  course,  and,  while  our  banners  wing 

Northward,  strike  with  us !  till  the  Goth  shall  cling 

To  his  own  blasted  altar  stones,  and  crave 

Mercy ;  and  we  shall  grant  it,  and  dictate 

The  lenient  future  of  his  fate 

There,  where  some  rotting  ships  and  crumbling  quays 

Shall  one  day  mark  the  Port  which  ruled  the  Western  seas. 


THE  LILY  CONFIDANTE 

Lily  !  lady  of  the  garden  ! 

Let  me  press  my  lip  to  thine  f 
Love  must  tell  its  story,.  Lily  !. 

Listen  thou  to  mine. 


294     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

Two  I  choose  to  know  the  secret  — 
Thee,  and  yonder  wordless  flute ; 

Dragons  watch  me,  tender  Lily, 
And  thou  must  be  mute. 

There  's  a  maiden,  and  her  name  is  — 

Hist !  was  that  a  rose-leaf  fell  ? 
See,  the  rose  is  listening,  Lily, 

And  the  rose  may  tell. 

Lily-browed  and  lily-hearted, 

She  is  very  dear  to  me ; 
Lovely  ?  yes,  if  being  lovely 

Is  —  resembling  thee. 

Six  to  half  a  score  of  summers 

Make  the  sweetest  of  the  "  teens  " 

Not  too  young  to  guess,  dear  Lily, 
What  a  lover  means. 

Laughing  girl  and  thoughtful  woman, 

I  am  puzzled  how  to  woo  — 
Shall  I  praise,  or  pique  her,  Lily  ? 

Tell  me  what  to  do. 

"  Silly  lover,  if  thy  Lily 

Like  her  sister  lilies  be, 
Thou  must  woo,  if  thou  wouldst  wear  her, 

With  a  simple  plea. 

"  Love  's  the  lover's  only  magic, 

Truth  the  very  subtlest  art ; 
Love  that  feigns,  and  lips  that  flatter, 

Win  no  modest  heart. 


HENRY   TIMROD  295 

"  Like  the  dewdrop  in  my  bosom, 

Be  thy  guileless  language,  youth ; 
Falsehood  buyeth  falsehood  only, 

Truth  must  purchase  truth. 

"As  thou  talkest  at  the  fireside, 

With  the  little  children  by  — 
As  thou  prayest  in  the  darkness, 

When  thy  God  is  nigh  — 

"  With  a  speech  as  chaste  and  gentle, 

And  such  meanings  as  become 
Ear  of  child,  or  ear  of  angel, 

Speak,  or  be  thou  dumb. 

"  Woo  her  thus,  and  she  shall  give  thee 

Of  her  heart  the  sinless  whole, 
All  the  girl  within  her  bosom, 

And  her  woman's  soul." 


MAGNOLIA  CEMETERY  ODE 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause ; 

Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone ! 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears, 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 


296     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Small  tributes !  but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 

Than  when  some  cannon-molded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies ! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned ! 


FRANCIS  ORRAY  TICKNOR 

[Francis  Orray  Ticknor  was  born  in  Fortville,  Georgia,  in  1822. 
After  studying  medicine  in  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  he  settled 

first  at  Shell  Creek,  Lumpkin 
County,  Georgia,  and  later  on 
a  farm  called  "Torch  Hill" 
near  Columbus,  Georgia,  and 
there  for  the  rest  of  his  life  led 
the  life  of  a  country  physician. 
His  special  passions  were  the 
cultivating  of  fruits  and  flowers, 
music,  and  the  writing  of 
poetry.  His  poems  secured  for 
him  some  local  reputation,  but 
as  he  wrote  verse  only  for  the 
pleasure  of  his  friends,  he  made 
no  collection  of  them  for  pub 
lication.  Five  years  after  his 
death  in  1874,  an  incomplete 
edition  was  published,  which 
has  been  supplanted  by  a  later 
edition  prepared  by  the  poet's 
granddaughter,  Michelle  Cun- 
liffe  Ticknor.] 


FRANCIS  ORRAY  TICKNOR 

From  a  sketch  by  his  granddaughter, 
Michelle  Cunliffe  Ticknor 


FRANCIS   ORRAY   TICKNOR  297 

LITTLE  GIFFEN1 

Out  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 
Out  of  the  hospital's  walls  as  dire ; 
Smitten  of  grape-shot  and  gangrene  — 
Eighteenth  battle  and  he  sixteen  — 
Specter !  —  such  as  you  seldom  see, 
Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee. 

M  Take  him  and  welcome!  "  the  surgeons  said, 
"  Little  the  doctor  can  help  the  dead  !  "  — 
So  we  took  him  and  brought  him  where 
The  balm  was  sweet  in  the  summer  air, 
And  we  laid  him  down  on  a  wholesome  bed, — 
LTtter  Lazarus,  heel  to  head  ! 

And  we  watched  the  war  with  abated  breath,  — 
Skeleton  boy  against  skeleton  Death  ! 
Months  of  torture,  how  many  such ! 
Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch ; 
And  still  a  glint  in  the  steel-blue  eye 
Told  of  a  spirit  that  would  n't  die. 

And  did  n't !  —  Nay,  more  !  in  Death's  despite 
The  crippled  skeleton  learned  to  write  — 
"  Dear  Mother  "  !  at  first,  of  course,  and  then 
"  Dear  Captain  "  !  —  inquiring  about  the  men  ! 
Captain's  answer :  "  Of  eighty  and  five, 
Giffen  and  I  are  left  alive  !  " 

1  The  selections  from  Ticknor  are  reprinted  through  the  courtesy  of  the 
holder  of  the  copyright,  The  Neale  Publishing  Company. 


298     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Word  of  gloom  from  the  war,  one  day : 

Johnston  pressed  at  the  front  they  say, 

Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away  !  — 

A  tear,  his  first,  as  he  bade  good-by, 

Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye ;  — 

"  I  '11  write,  if  spared  1 "  —  there  was  news  of  the  fight 

But  none  of  Giffen  !  —  He  did  not  write  ! 


I  sometimes  fancy  that  were  I  king 
Of  the  princely  knights  of  Golden  Ring, 
With  the  song  of  the  minstrel  in  mine  ear 
And  the  tender  legend  that  trembles  here, 
I'd  give  the  best  on  his  bended  knee, 
The  whitest  soul  of  my  chivalry, 
For  Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee. 


THE  VIRGINIANS  OF  THE  VALLEY 

The  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race, 

That  since  the  days  of  old, 

Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 

Alight  in  hearts  of  gold. 

The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band 

That,  rarely  hating  ease, 

Yet  rode  with  Spotswood  round  the  land, 

With  Raleigh  around  the  seas. 

Who  climbed  the  blue  embattled  hills 
Against  embattled  foes, 
And  planted  there,  in  valleys  fair, 
The  lily  and  the  rose  ! 


FRANCIS   ORRAY   TICKNOR  299 

Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 
Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 
And  lights  the  hearths  of  happy  homes 
With  loveliness  and  worth  ! 


We  thought  they  slept !  —  the  sons  who  kept 

The  names  of  noble  sires, 

And  slumbered,  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil  fires  ! 

But  aye  !  the  "  Golden  Horse-shoe  "  Knights 

Their  Old  Dominion  keep, 

Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground 

But  not  a  knight  asleep. 


UNKNOWN 

The  prints  of  feet  are  worn  away, 
No  more  the  mourners  come  ; 

The  voice  of  wail  is  mute  to-day 
As  his  whose  life  is  dumb. 


The  world  is  bright  with  other  bloom ; 

Shall  the  sweet  summer  shed 
Its  living  radiance  o'er  the  tomb 

That  shrouds  the  doubly  dead  ? 

Unknown  !    Beneath  our  Father's  face 

The  starlit  hillocks  lie ; 
Another  rosebud  !  lest  His  grace 

Forget  us  when  we  die. 


300     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

PAGE  BROOK 

There  is  dust  on  the  doorway,  there  is  mold  on  the  wall — 
There  's  a  chill  at  the  hearthstone — a  hush  through  the  hall ; 
And  the  stately  old  mansion  stands  darkened  and  cold 
By  the  leal,  loving  hearts  that  it  sheltered  of  old. 

No  light  at  the  lattice,  no  smile  at  the  door ; 
No  cheer  at  its  table,  no  dance  on  its  floor ; 
But  "  Glory  departed,"  and  silence  alone ; 
"  Dust  unto  dust "  upon  pillar  and  stone ! 

No  laughter  of  childhood,  no  shout  on  the  lawn ; 
No  footstep  to  echo  the  feet  that  are  gone : 
Feet  of  the  beautiful,  forms  of  the  brave  — 
Failing  in  other  lands,  gone  to  the  grave. 

No  carol  at  morning,  no  hymn  rising  clear, 

Nor. song  at  the  bridal,  nor  chant  at  the  bier ! 

All  the  chords  of  its  symphonies  scattered  and  riven, 

Its  altar  in  ashes,  its  incense  in  Heaven. 

'T  is  an  ache  at  the  heart,  thus  lonely  to  stand 
By  the  wreck  of  a  home  once  the  pride  of  the  land ; 
Its  chambers  unfilled  as  its  children  depart, 
The  melody  stilled  in  its  desolate  heart. 

Yet  softly  the  sunlight  still  rests  on  the  grass 
And  lightly  and  swiftly  the  cloud-shadows  pass, 
And  still  the  wide  meadow  exults  in  the  sheen 
With  its  foam  crest  of  snow,  and  its  billows  of  green ! 


FRANCIS   ORRAY   TICKNOR  301 

And  the  verdure  shall  creep  to  the  moldering  wall 
And  the  sunshine  shall  sleep  in  the  desolate  hall  — 
And  the  foot  of  the  pilgrim  shall  find  to  the  last 
Some  fragrance  of  home,  at  this  shrine  of  the  Past. 


LOYAL 

The  Douglas  —  in  the  days  of  old  — 

The  gentle  minstrels  sing, 
Wore  at  his  heart,  incased  in  gold, 

The  heart  of  Bruce,  his  king. 

Through  Paynim  lands  to  Palestine, 

Befall  what  peril  might, 
To  lay  that  heart  on  Christ,  his  shrine, 

His  knightly  word  he  plight. 

A  weary  way,  by  night  and  day, 

Of  vigil  and  of  fight, 
Where  never  rescue  came  by  day 

Nor  ever  rest  by  night. 

And  one  by  one  the  valiant  spears, 
They  faltered  from  his  side ; 

And  one  by  one  his  heavy  tears 
Fell  for  the  Bruce  who  died. 

All  fierce  and  black,  around  his  track, 

He  saw  the  combat  close, 
And  counted  but  a  single  sword 

Against  uncounted  foes. 


302     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

He  drew  the  casket  from  his  breast, 

He  bared  his  solemn  brow, 
Oh,  kingliest  and  knightliest, 

Go  first  in  battle,  now  ! 

Where  leads  my  Lord  of  Bruce,  the  sword 

Of  Douglas  shall  not  stay ! 
Forward  —  and  to  the  feet  of  Christ 

I  follow  thee,  to-day. 

The  casket  flashed  !  —  The  battle  clashed, 

Thundered  and  rolled  away. 
And  dead  above  the  heart  of  Bruce 

The  heart  of  Douglas  lay. 

"  Loyal  1 "  —  Methinks  the  antique  mold 

Is  lost !  —  or  theirs  alone, 
Who  sheltered  Freedom's  heart  of  gold, 

Like  Douglas  with  their  own. 


PART   III.    THE   NEW  SOUTH    IN 
LITERATURE 

HUMORISTS 

RICHARD  MALCOLM  JOHNSTON, 

[Richard  Malcolm  Johnston  was  born  in  Hancock  County,  Georgia, 
in  1822.  After  graduating  from  Mercer  University,  he  entered  upon 
the  practice  of  law,  but  in  1857  became  professor  of  English  litera 
ture  at  the  University  of  Georgia.  After  the  war  he  established  a 
boarding  school  for  boys  at  Sparta,  Georgia,  and  afterward  near 
Baltimore,  Maryland.  It  was  in  Baltimore  that  he  died,  in  1898. 
His  racy  character  studies,  entitled  "  Dukesborough  Tales,"  which 
had  appeared  in  the  Southern  Magazine,  were  first  collected  into 
book  form  in  1871,  but  did  not  attratt  general  attention  until  pub 
lished  again  nine  years  later.  This  initial  volume  was  followed  by 
several  volumes  of  fiction,  —  novels  and  collections  of  tales,  —  as 
well  as  of  literary  and  social  papers.] 

THE  GOOSEPOND  SCHOOLMASTER 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  pupils  in  the  Goosepond,  as  in 
most  of  the  other  country  schools  of  those  times,  to  study 
aloud.  ^Whether  the  teachers  thought  that  the  mind  could  not 
act  unless  the  tongue  was  going,  or  that  the  tongue  going  was 
the  only  evidence  that  the  mind  was  acting,  it  never  did  appear. 
Such  had  been  the  custom,  and  Mr.  Meadows  did  not  aspire 
to  be  an  innovator.  It  was  his  rule,  however,  that  there  should 
be  perfect  silence  on  his  arrival,  in  order  to  give  him  an  op 
portunity  of  saying  or  doing  anything  he  might  wish.  This 

3°3 


304     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

morning  there  did  not  seem  to  be  anything  heavy  on  his 
mind  which  required  to  be  lifted  off.  He,  however,  looked  at 
Brinkly  Glisson  with  an  expression  of  some  disappointment. 
He  had  beaten  him  the  morning  before  for  not  having  gotten 
there  in  time,  though  the  boy's  excuse  was  that  he  had  gone 
a  mile  out  of  his  way  on  an  errand  for  his  mother.  He  looked 
at  him  as  if  he  had  expected  to  have  had  some  business  with 
him,  which  now  unexpectedly  had  to  be  postponed.  He  then 
looked  around  over  the  school,  and  said :  "  Go  to  studyin'." 

He  had  been  in  the  habit  of  speaking  but  to  command,  and 
of  commanding  but  to  be  obeyed.  Instantaneously  was  heard, 
then  and  there,  that  unintelligible  tumult,  the  almost  invariable 
incident  ofthe  countrvschools  of  that  generation.  There  were 
spellers  and  readers,  geographers,  and  arithmeticians,  all  en 
gaged  in  their  several  pursuits,  in  the  most  inexplicable  con 
fusion.  Sometimes  the  spellers  would  have  the  heels  of  the 
others,  and  sometimes  the  readers.  The  geographers  were 
always  third,  and  the  arithmeticians  always  behind.  It  was 
very  plain  to  be  seen  that  .these  last  never  would  catch  the 
others.  The  faster  they  added  or  subtracted,  the  oftener  they 
had  to  rub  out  and  commence  anew.  It  was  always  but  a 
short  time  before  they  found  this  to  be  the  case,  and  so  they 
generally  concluded  to  adopt  the  maxim  of  the  philosopher, 
of  being  slow  in  making  haste.  The  geographers  were  a  little 
faster  and  a  little  louder.  But  the  spellers  and  readers  had  it, 
I  tell  you.  Each  speller  and  each  reader  went  through  the 
whole  gamut  of  sounds,  from  low  up  to  high,  and  from  high 
down  to  low  again;  sometimes  by  regular  ascension  and  de- 
scension,  one  note  at  a  time,  sounding  what  musicians  call  the 
diatonic  intervals ;  at  other  times,  going  up  and  coming  down 
upon  the  perfect  fifths  only.  It  was  refreshing  to  see  the  pas 
sionate  eagerness  which  these  urchins  manifested  for  the  acqui 
sition  of  knowledge !  To  have  heard  them  for  the  first  time, 


RICHARD   MALCOLM   JOHNSTON  305 

one  might  possibly  have  been  reminded  of  the  Apostles'  preach 
ing  at  Pentecost,  when  were  spoken  the  languages  of  the 
Parthians  and  Medes,  Elamites  and  the  dwellers  in  Meso 
potamia,  and  in  Judea  and  Cappadocia;  in  Pontus  and  Asia, 
Phrygia  and  Pamphylia;  in  Egypt  and  in  the  parts  of  Syria 
about  Gyrene ;  and  Strangers  of  Rome,  Jews  and  Proselytes, 
Cretes  and  Arabians.  Sometimes  these  jarring  tongues  sub 
sided  a  little,  when  half  a  dozen  or  so  would  stop  to  blow ; 
but  in  the  next  moment  the  chorus  would  swell  again  in  a 
new  and  livelier  accrescendo.  When  this  process  had  gone  on 
for  half  an  hour,  Mr.  Meadows  lifted  his  voice  and  shouted, 
"  Silence  !  "  and  all  was  still. 

Now  were  to  commence  the  recitations,  during  which  still 
ness  like  that  of  death  was  required.  For  as  great  a  help  to 
study  as  this  jargon  was,  Mr.  Meadows  found  that  it  did  not 
contribute  any  aid  to  the  doing  of  his  work. 

He  now  performed  an  interesting  feat.  He  put  his  hand 
behind  the  lapel  of  his  coat  collar,  and  then,  after  withdrawing 
it,  and  holding  it  up,  his  thumb  and  forefinger  joined  together, 
he  said :  "  There  is  too  much  fuss  here.  I'm  going  to  drop 
this  pin,  and  I  shall  whip  every  single  one  of  you  little  boys 
that  don't  hear  it  when  it  falls.  Thar !  " 

"  I  heerd  it,  Mr.  Meadows !  I  heerd  it,  Mr.  Meadows ! " 
exclaimed,  simultaneously,  five  or  six  little  fellows. 

"  Come  up  here,  you  little  rascals.  You  are  a  liar !  "  said  he 
to  each  one.  "  I  never  drapped  it ;  I  never  had  nary  one  to 
drap.  It  just  shows  what  liars  you  are.  Set  down  and  wait 
awhile ;  I  '11  show  you  how  to  tell  me  lies." 

The  little  liars  slunk  to  their  seats,  and  the  recitations  com 
menced.  Memory  was  the  only  faculty  of  mind  that  got  devel 
opment  at  this  school.  Whoever  could  say  exactly  what  the 
book  said  was  adjudged  to  know  his  lesson.  About  half  of  the 
pupils  on  this  morning  were  successful.  The  other  half  were 


306     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

found  to  be  delinquent  Among  these  was  Asa  Boatright. 
That  calculating  young  gentleman  knew  his  words  and  felt 
safe.  The  class  had  spelled  around  three  or  four  times  when 
lo !  the  contingency  which  Allen  Thigpen  had  suggested  did 
come  to  pass.  Betsy  Wiggins  missed  her  word;  Heneritter 
Bangs  (in  the  language  of  Allen)  hern;  and  Mandy  Grizzle 
hern ;  and  thus  responsibilities  were  suddenly  cast  upon  Asa 
which  he  was  wholly  unprepared  to  meet  and  which,  from 
the  look  of  mighty  reproach  that  he  gave  each  of  these  young 
ladies  as  she  handed  over  her  word,  he  evidently  thought  it 
the  height  of  injustice  that  he  should  have  been  called  upon  to 
meet.  Mr.  Meadows,  closing  his  book,  tossed  it  to  Asa,  who, 
catching  it  as  it  was  falling  at  his  feet,  turned  and,  his  eyes 
swimming  with  tears,  went  back  to  his  seat.  As  he  passed 
Allen  Thigpen,  the  latter  whispered :  "  What  did  I  tell  you  ? 
You  heerd  the  pin  drap,  too ! " 

Now  Allen  was  in  no  plight  to  have  given  this  taunt  to  Asa. 
He  had  not  given  five  minutes'  study  to  his  arithmetic  during 
the  whole  morning.  But  Mr.  Meadows  made  a  rule  (this  one 
for  himself,  though  all  the  pupils  knew  it  better  than  any  rule 
he  had)  never  to  allow  Allen  to  miss  a  lesson ;  and  as  he  had 
kindly  taken  this  responsibility  upon  himself,  Allen  was  wont  to 
give  himself  no  trouble  about  the  matter. 

Brinkly  Glisson  was  the  last  to  recite.  Brinkly  was  no  great 
hand  at  pronunciation.  He  had  been  reading  but  a  short  time 
when  Mr.  Meadows  advanced  him  into  geography,  with  the 
purpose,  as  Brinkly  afterward  came  to  believe,  of  getting  the 
half-dollar  extra  tuition.  This  morning  he  thought  he  knew  his 
lesson ;  and  he  did,  as  he  understood  it.  When  called  to  recite, 
he  went  up  with  a  countenance  expressive  of  mild  happiness, 
handed  the  book  to  Mr.  Meadows,  and,  putting  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  awaited  the  questions.  And  now  it  was  an  inter 
esting  sight  to  see  Mr.  Meadows  smile  as  Brinkly  talked  of 


RICHARD   MALCOLM  JOHNSTON  307 

is-lands  and  promonitaries,  thismuses  and  hemispheries.  The 
lad  misunderstood  that  smile,  and  his  heart  was  glad  for  the 
unexpected  reception  of  a  little  complacency  from  the  master. 
But  he  was  not  long  in  error. 

"  Is-lands,  eh  ?  Thismuses,  eh  ?  Take  this  book  and  see  if 
you  can  find  any  is-lands  and  promonitaries,  and  then  bring 
them  to  me.  I  want  to  see  them  things,  I  do.  Find  'em,  if 
you  please." 

Brinkly  took  the  book,  and  it  would  have  melted  the  heart 
of  any  other  man  to  see  the  deep  despair  of  his  heart  as  he 
looked  on  it  and  was  spelling  over  to  himself  the  words  as 
he  came  to  them. 

"  Mr.  Meadows,"  he  said  in  pleading  tones,  "  I  thought  it 
was  is-land.  Here  it  is,  I-s-is-1-a-n-d-land,  Is-land " ;  and  he 
looked  into  his  face  beseechingly. 

"  Is-land,  eh  ?  Is-land!  Now,  thismuses  and  promonitaries 
and  hemispheries  — 

"  Mr.  Meadows,  I  did  not  know  how  to  pronounce  them 
words.  I  asked  you  how  to  pronounce  'em  and  you  would  n't 
tell  me ;  and  I  asked  Allen,  and  he  told  me  the  way  I  said 
them." 

"  I  believe  that  to  be  a  lie."  Brinkly 's  face  reddened,  and  his 
breathing  was  fast  and  hard.  He  looked  at  the  master  as  but 
once  or  twice  before  during  the  term,  but  made  no  answer. 

At  that  moment  Allen  leaned  carelessly  on  his  desk,  his 
elbows  resting  on  it,  and  chin  on  his  hands,  and  said  dryly, 
"  Yess,  I  did  tell  him  so." 

The  man  reddened  a  little.  After  a  moment's  pause,  how 
ever,  he  said :  "  How  often  have  I  got  to  tell  you  not  to  ask 
anybody  but  me  how  to  pronounce  words  ?  That  '11  do,  sir  ;  sit 
down,  sir." 


308     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY 

[George  William  Bagby  was  born  in  Buckingham  County,  Vir 
ginia,  in  1828.  After  graduating  from  the  medical  school  of  the 
University  of  Pennsylvania  he  made  his  residence  in  Richmond. 
He  became  a  journalist  and  wrote  some  very  witty  letters  under  the 
pen  name  of  "  Mozis  Addums."  He  also  made  a  reputation  as  a 
humorous  lecturer.  So  sympathetically  did  he  treat  the  humorous 
aspects  of  Virginia  life  that  he  won  for  himself  the  title  of  "  the 
Virginia  Elia."  He  died  in  1883.] 

JUD  BROWNIN'S  ACCOUNT  OF  RUBINSTEIN'S 
PLAYING 

"  Jud,  they  say  you  heard  Rubinstein  play  when  you  were  in 
New  York." 

"  I  did,  in  the  cool." 

"  Well,  tell  us  about  it." 

"  What  ?  me  ?  I  might 's  well  tell  you  about  the  creation  of 
the  world." 

"  Come,  now  ;  no  mock  modesty.    Go  ahead." 

"  Well,  sir,  he  had  the  blaemedest,  biggest,  cattycornedest 
pianner  you  ever  laid  eyes  on  ;  somethin'  like  a  distractid 
billiard  table  on  three  legs.  The  lid  was  heisted,  and  mighty 
well  it  was.  If  it  had  n't  been,  he  'd  tore  the  intire  insides  clean 
out,  and  scattered  'em  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven." 

"  Played  well,  did  he  ?  " 

"  You  bet  he  did ;  but  don't  interrup'  me.  When  he  first  set 
down  he  'peared  to  keer  mighty  little  'bout  playin',  and  wished 
he  had  n'  come.  He  tweedle-leedled  a  little  on  the  trible,  and 
twoodle-oodle-oodled  some  on  the  base — just  foolin'  and  boxin' 
the  thing's  jaws  for  bein'  in  his  way.  And  I  says  to  a  man 
settin'  next  to  me,  s'  I,  '  What  sort  of  fool  playin'  is  that  ? ' 
And  he  says,  '  Heish ! '  But  presently  his  hands  commenced 
chasin'  one  'nother  up  and  down  the  keys,  like  a  passel  of  rats 


GEORGE  WILLIAM   BAGBY  309 

scamperin'  through  a  garret  very  swift.  Parts  of  it  was  sweet, 
though,  and  reminded  me  of  a  sugar  squirrel  turnin'  the  wheel 
of  a  candy  cage.  *  Now,'  I  says  to  my  neighbor,  '  he  's  showin' 
off.  He  thinks  he  's  a-doin'  of  it ;  but  he  ain't  got  no  idee,  no 
plan  of  nuthin'.  If  he  'd  play  me  up  a  tune  of  some  kind  or 
other,  I'd  — ' 

"  But  my  neighbor  says,  '  Heish ! '  very  impatient. 

"  I  was  just  about  to  git  up  and  go  home,  bein'  tired  of  that 
foolishness,  when  I  heard  a  little  bird  wakin'  up  away  off  in  the 
woods,  and  callin'  sleepy-like  to  his  mate,  and  I  looked  up  and 
I  see  that  Ruben  was  beginnin'  to  take  interest  in  his  business, 
and  I  set  down  agin.  It  was  the  peep  of  day.  The  light  come 
faint  from  the  east,  the  breeze  blowed  gentle  and  fresh,  some 
more  birds  waked  up  in  the  orchard,  then  some  more  in  the 
trees  near  the  house,  and  all  begun  singin'  together.  People 
begun  to  stir,  and  the  gal  opened  the  shutters.  Just  then  the 
first  beam  of  the  sun  fell  upon  the  blossoms ;  a  leetle  more 
and  it  techt  the  roses  on  the  bushes,  and  the  next  thing  it  was 
broad  day ;  the  sun  fairly  blazed  ;  the  birds  sang  like  they  'd 
split  their  little  throats ;  all  the  leaves  was  moving  and  flashin' 
diamonds  of  dew,  and  the  whole  wide  world  was  bright  and 
happy  as  a  king.  Seemed  to  me  like  there  was  a  good  break 
fast  in  every  house  in  the  land,  and  not  a  sick  child  or  woman 
anywhere.  It  was  a  fine  mornin'. 

"  And  I  says  to  my  neighbor,  '  That 's  music,  that  is.' 

"  But  he  glared  at  me  like  he  'd  like  to  cut  my  throat. 

"  Presently  the  wind  turned ;  it  begun  to  thicken  up,  and  a 
kind  of  gray  mist  come  over  things ;  I  got  low-spirited  d'rectlv. 
Then  a  silver  rain  begun  to  fall ;  I  could  see  the  drops  touch 
the  ground  ;  some  flashed  up  like  long  pearl  earrings  ;  and  the 
rest  rolled  away  like  round  rubies.  It  was  pretty,  but  melan 
choly.  Then  the  pearls  gathered  themselves  into  long  strands 
and  necklaces,  and  then  they  melted  into  thin  silver  streams 


310     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

running  between  golden  gravels,  and  then  the  streams  joined 
each  other  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and  made  a  brook  that 
flowed  silent  except  that  you  could  kinder  see  the  music 
specially  when  the  bushes  on  the  banks  moved  as  the  music 
went  along  down  the  valley.  I  could  smell  the  flowers  in  the 
meadows.  But  the  sun  did  n't  shine,  nor  the  birds  sing ;  it  was 
a  foggy  day,  but  not  cold.  Then  the  sun  went  down,  it  got 
dark,  the  wind  moaned  and  wept  like  a  lost  child  for  its  dead 
mother,  and  I  could  a-got  up  then  and  there  and  preached  a 
better  sermon  than  any  I  ever  listened  to.  There  was  n't  a  thing 
in  the  world  left  to  live  for,  not  a  blame  thing,  and  yet  I  did  n't 
want  the  music  to  stop  one  bit.  It  was  happier  to  be  miserable 
than  to  be  happy  without  being  miserable.  I  could  n't  under 
stand  it.  ...  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  old  Ruben  changed  his 
tune.  He  ripped  and  he  rar'd,  he  tipped  and  he  tar'd,  he  pranced 
and  he  charged  like  the  grand  entry  at  a  circus.  'Feared  to  me 
like  all  the  gas  in  the  house  was  turned  on  at  once,  things  got 
so  bright,  and  I  hilt  up  my  head,  ready  to  look  any  man  in  the 
face,  and  not  afeared  of  nothin'.  It  was  a  circus,  and  a  brass 
band,  and  a  big  ball,  all  goin'  on  at  the  same  time.  He  lit  into 
them  keys  like  a  thousand  of  brick,  he  gave  'em  no  rest,  day 
nor  night ;  he  set  every  living  joint  in  me  agoin',  and  not  bein' 
able  to  stand  it  no  longer,  I  jumpt  spang  onto  my  seat,  and 
jest  hollered:  ' Go  it,  my  Rube!' 

"  Every  blamed  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  house  riz  on 
me,  and  shouted,  '  Put  him  out !  Put  him  out ! ' 

"  With  that  some  several  p'licemen  run  up,  and  I  had  to 
simmer  down.  But  I  would  a-fit  any  fool  that  laid  hands  on 
me,  for  I  was  bound  to  hear  Ruby  out  or  die. 

"  He  had  changed  his  tune  agin.  He  hopt-light  ladies  and 
tiptoed  fine  from  eend  to  eend  of  the  keyboard.  He  played 
soft,  and  low,  and  solemn.  I  heard  the  church  bells  over  the 
hills.  The  candles  in  heaven  was  lit,  one  by  one.  I  saw  the 


GEORGE  WILLIAM   BAGBY  311 

stars  rise.  The  great  organ  of  eternity  began  to  play  from 
the  world's  end  to  the  world's  end,  and  all  the  angels  went 
to  prayers.  Then  the  music  changed  to  water,  full  of  feeling 
that  could  n't  be  thought,  and  began  to  drop  —  drip,  drop,  drip, 
drop —  clear  and  sweet,  like  tears  of  joy  fallin'  into  a  lake 
of  glory. 

"  He  stopt  a  minute  or  two,  to  fetch  breath.  Then  he 
got  mad.  He  run  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  he  shoved 
up  his  sleeves,  he  opened  his  coat-tails  a  leetle  further,  he 
drug  up  his  stool,  he  leaned  over,  and,  sir,  he  just  went  for 
that  old  planner.  He  slapt  her  face,  he  boxed  her  jaws,  he 
pulled  her  nose,  he  pinched  her  ears,  and  he  scratched  her 
cheeks,  till  she  farly  yelled.  He  knockt  her  down  and  he 
stompt  on  her  shameful.  She  bellowed  like  a  bull,  she  bleated 
like  a  calf,  she  howled  like  a  hound,  she  squealed  like  a  pig, 
she  shrieked  like  a  rat,  and  then  he  would  n't  let  her  up.  He 
run  a  quarter-stretch  down  the  low  grounds  of  the  bass,  till  he 
got  clean  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  you  heard  thunder 
galloping  after  thunder,  through  the  hollows  and  caves  of 
perdition ;  and  then  he  fox-chased  his  right  hand  with  his  left 
till  he  got  away  out  of  the  trible  into  the  clouds,  whar  the 
notes  was  finer  than  the  pints  of  cambric  needles,  and  you 
could  n't  hear  nothin'  but  the  shadders  of  'em.  And  then  he 
wouldn't  let  the  old  pianner  go.  He  fetcht  up  his  right  wing, 
he  fetcht  up  his  left  wing,  he  fetcht  up  his  center,  he  fetcht  up 
his  reserves.  He  fired  by  file,  he  fired  by  platoons,  by  com 
pany,  by  regiments,  and  by  brigades.  He  opened  his  cannon, 
siege-guns  down  thar,  Napoleons  here,  twelve-pounders  yonder, 
big  guns,  little  guns,  middle-sized  guns,  round  shot,  shell, 
shrapnel,  grape,  canister,  mortars,  mines,  and  magazines,  every 
livin'  batter)'  and  bomb  a-goin'  at  the  same  time.  The  house 
trembled,  the  lights  danced,  the  walls  shuk,  the  floor  come  up, 
the  ceilin'  come  down,  the  sky  split,  the  ground  rockt  —  BANG  ! 


312     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"With  that  bang!  he  lifted  hisself  bodily  into  the  ar',  and  he 
come  down  with  his  knees,  his  ten  fingers,  his  ten  toes,  his 
elbows,  and  his  nose,  strikin'  every  single  solitary  key  on  that 
pianner  at  the  same  time.  The  thing  busted  and  went  off  into 
seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-seven  thousand  five  hundred  and^ 
forty-two  hemi-demi-semi-quivers,  and  I  know'd  no  mo'." 


NOVELISTS  AND  STORY  WRITERS 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE 

[George  Washington  Cable  was  born  in  New  Orleans.  Louisiana, 
in  1844.  Though  very  young  when  the  Civil  War  began,  he  served 
in  the  Fourth  Mississippi  Cavalry. 
After  the  war  he  was  for  some 
years  a  surveyor  and  then  a  clerk  in 
a  cotton  factor's  office.  He  gave  up 
this  position  to  become  a  reporter 
on  the  New  Orleans  Picayune,  for 
which  he  had  been  writing  sketches. 
Reporting  was,  however,  not  to  his 
taste,  and  finding  that  the  stories 
he  had  had  time  to  write  between 
his  newspaper  duties  were  accept 
able  to  Sc  rib  tier's  Magazine  and 
other  periodicals,  he  decided  in 
1 879  to  devote  himself  to  literature 
as  a  profession.  In  1 886  he  moved 
to  Northampton,  Massachusetts, 
where  he  still  resides.  While  en 
gaged  in  newspaper  work  he  began 
to  write  sketches  of  New  Orleans 
life.  These  he  later  gathered  into  his  book  "  Old  Creole  Days,"  pub 
lished  in  1879.  Since  then  he  has  written  several  novels  and  collec 
tions  of  short  stories,  nearly  all  of  which  have  his  distinctive  background 
of  Louisiana  Creole  life.  Becoming  interested  in  philanthropic  enter 
prises,  he  has  given  much  time  and  energy  to  the  promotion  of  societies 
for  social  betterment,  such  as  the  Home  Culture  Clubs,  founded  in 
1887,  .now  the  Northampton  People's  Institute.  In  addition  to  the 
writing  of  books,  he  has  lectured  on  literary  and  philanthropic  subjects 
and  h&s  given  readings  from  his  own  stories.] 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE 


314     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

THE   DANCE   IN   PLACE   CONGO1 
I.  CONGO  SQUARE 

Whoever  has  been  to  New  Orleans  with  eyes  not  totally 
abandoned  to  buying  and  selling  will,  of  course,  remember 
St.  Louis  Cathedral,  looking  southeastward  —  riverward  — 
across  quaint  Jackson  Square,  the  old  Place  d'Armes.  And  if 
he  has  any  feeling  for  flowers,  he  has  not  forgotten  the  little 
garden  behind  the  cathedral,  so  antique  and  unexpected,  named 
for  the  beloved  old  priest  Pere  Antoine. 

The  old  Rue  Royale  lies  across  the  sleeping  garden's  foot. 
On  the  street's  farther  side  another  street  lets  away  at  right 
angles,  northwestward,  straight,  and  imperceptibly  downward 
from  the  cathedral  and  garden  toward  the  rear  of  the  city.  It 
is  lined  mostly  with  humble  ground-floor-and-garret  houses  of 
stuccoed  brick,  their  wooden  doorsteps  on  the  brick  sidewalks. 
This  is  Orleans  Street,  so  named  when  the  city  was  founded. 

Its  rugged  round-stone  pavement  is  at  times  nearly  as  sunny 
and  silent  as  the  landward  side  of  a  coral  reef.  Thus  for  about 
half  a  mile ;  and  then  Rampart  Street,  where  the  palisade  wall 
of  the  town  used  to  run  in  Spanish  days,  crosses  it,  and  a  public 
square  just  beyond  draws  a  grateful  canopy  of  oak  and  sycamore 
boughs.  That  is  the  Place.  One  may  shut  his  buff  umbrella 
there,  wipe  the  beading  sweat  from  the  brow,  and  fan  himself 
with  his  hat.  Many  's  the  bullfight  has  taken  place  on  that  spot 
Sunday  afternoons  of  the  old  time.  That  is  Congo  Square. 

The  trees  are  modern.  So  are  the  buildings  about  the  four 
sides,  for  all  their  aged  looks.  So  are  all  the  grounds'  adorn 
ments.  Tre'me  market,  off  beyond,  toward  the  swamp,  is  not 

1  Owing  to  inability  to  secure  permission  from  the  publishers  of  Mr.  Cable's 
works  to  include  a  selection  from  his  short  stories  or  his  novels,  I  have  availed 
myself  of  this  vivid  sketch  of  a  characteristic  feature  of  the  old  life  of  New 
Orleans.  The  article  was  originally  contributed  to  the  Century  Magazine^ 
Vol.  XXXI,  page  517. 


GEORGE   WASHINGTON   CABLE  315 

so  very  old,  and  the  scowling,  ill-smelling  prison  on  the  right, 
so  Spanish-looking  and  dilapidated,  is  not  a  third  the  age  it 
seems ;  not  fifty-five.  In  that  climate  every  year  of  a  building's 
age  counts  for  ten.  Before  any  of  these  M.  Cayetano's  circus 
and  menagerie  were  here.  Cayetane  the  negroes  called  him. 
He  was  the  Barnum  of  that  region  and  day. 

Miche  Cayetane.  qui  sortie  del'Havane, 
Avec  so  chouals  et  somacaques. 

That  is,  "  who  came  from  Havana  with  his  horses  and  baboons." 
Up  at  the  other  end  of  Orleans  Street,  hid  only  by  the  old 
padre's  garden  and  the  cathedral,  glistens  the  ancient  Place 
d'Armes.  In  the  early  days  it  stood  for  all  that  was  best;  the 
place  for  political  rallying,  the  retail  quarter  of  all  fine  goods 
and  wares,  and  at  sunset  and  by  moonlight  the  promenade  of 
good  society  and  the  haunt  of  true  lovers;  not  only  in  the 
military,  but  also  in  the  most  unwarlike  sense  the  place  of 
arms,  and  of  hearts  and  hands,  and  of  words  tender  as  well 
as  words  noble. 

The  Place  Congo,  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  street,  was  at 
the  opposite  end  of  everything.  One  was  on  the  highest  ground  ; 
the  other  on  the  lowest.  The  one  was  the  rendezvous  of  the 
rich  man,  the  master,  the  military  officer  —  of  all  that  went  to 
make  up  the  ruling  class ;  the  other  of  the  butcher  and  baker, 
the  raftsman,  the  sailor,  the  quadroon,  the  painted  girl,  and 
the  negro  slave.  No  meaner  name  could  be  given  the  spot. 
The  negro  was  the  most  despised  of  human  creatures  and  the 
Congo  the  plebeian  among  negroes.  The  white  man's  plaza 
had  the  army  and  navy  on  its  right  and  left,  the  courthouse, 
the  council-hall  and  the  church  at  its  back,  and  the  world  before 
it.  The  black  man's  was  outside  the  rear  gate,  the  poisonous 
wilderness  on  three  sides  and  the  proud  man's  contumely  on 
its  front. 


316     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Before  the  city  overgrew  its  flimsy  palisade  walls,  and  closing 
in  about  this  old  stamping-ground  gave  it  set  bounds,  it  was 
known  as  Congo  Plains.  There  was  wide  room  for  much  field 
sport,  and  the  Indian  villagers  of  the  town's  outskirts  and  the 
lower  class  of  white  Creoles  made  it  the  ground  of  their  wild 
ball  game  of  raquette.  Sunday  afternoons  were  the  time  for  it. 
Hence,  beside  these  diversions  there  was,  notably,  another. 

The  hour  was  the  slave's  term  of  momentary  liberty,  and  his 
simple,  savage,  musical  and  superstitious  nature  dedicated  it  to 
amatory  song  and  dance  tinctured  with  his  rude  notions  of 
supernatural  influences. 


II.  GRAND  ORCHESTRA 

The  booming  of  African  drums  and  blast  of  huge  wooden 
horns  called  to  the  gathering.  It  was  these  notes  of  invitation, 
reaching  beyond  those  of  other  outlandish  instruments,  that 
caught  the  Ethiopian  ear,  put  alacrity  into  the  dark  foot,  and 
brought  their  owners,  male  and  female,  trooping  from  all  quar 
ters.  The  drums  were  very  long,  hollowed,  often  from  a  single 
piece  of  wood,  open  at  one  end  and  having  a  sheep  or  goat 
skin  stretched  across  the  other.  One  was  large,  the  other  much 
smaller.  The  tight  skin  heads  were  not  held  up  to  be  struck ; 
the  drums  were  laid  along  on  the  turf  and  the  drummers  be 
strode  them,  and  beat  them  on  the  head  madly  with  fingers, 
fists,  and  feet,  —  with  slow  vehemence  on  the  great  drum,  and 
fiercely  and  rapidly  on  the  small  one.  Sometimes  an  extra  per 
former  sat  on  the  ground  behind  the  larger  drum,  at  its  open 
end,  and  "  beat  upon  the  wooden  sides  of  it  with  two  sticks." 
The  smaller  drum  was  often  made  from  a  joint  or  two  of  very 
large  bamboo,  in  the  West  Indies  where  such  could  be  got,  and 
this  is  said  to  be  the  origin  of  its  name ;  for  it  was  called  the 
Bamboula. 


GEORGE   WASHINGTON   CABLE  317 

In  stolen  hours  of  night  or  the  basking-hour  of  noon  the  black 
man  contrived  to  fashion  these  rude  instruments  and  others. 
The  drummers,  I  say,  bestrode  the  drums  ;  the  other  musicians 
sat  about  them  in  an  arc,  cross-legged  on  the  ground.  One  im 
portant  instrument  was  a  gourd  partly  filled  with  pebbles  or 
grains  of  corn,  flourished  violently  at  the  end  of  a  stout  staff 
with  one  hand  and  beaten  upon  the  palm  of  the  other.  Other 
performers  rang  triangles,  and  others  twanged  from  jew's-harps 
an  astonishing  amount  of  sound.  Another  instrument  was  the 
jawbone  of  some  ox,  horse,  or  mule,  and  a  key  rattled  rhyth 
mically  along  its  weather-beaten  teeth.  At  times  the  drums 
were  reenforced  by  one  or  more  empty  barrels  or  casks  beaten 
on  the  head  with  the  shank  bones  of  cattle. 

A  queer  thing  that  went  with  these  when  the  affair  was  pre 
tentious  —  full  dress,  as  it  were  —  at  least  it  was  so  in  the 
West  Indies,  whence  Congo  Plains  drew  all  inspirations  —  was 
the  Marimba  brett,  a  union  of  reed  and  string  principles.  A 
single  strand  of  wire  ran  lengthwise  of  a  bit  of  wooden  board, 
sometimes  a  shallow  box  of  thin  wood,  some  eight  inches  long 
by  four  or  five  in  width,  across  which,  under  the  wire,  were 
several  joints  of  reed  about  a  quarter  of  an  inch  in  diameter 
and  of  graduated  lengths.  The  performer,  sitting  cross-legged, 
held  the  board  in  both  hands  and  plucked  the  ends  of  the  reeds 
with  his  thumb-nails.  The  result  was  called  —  music. 

But  the  grand  instrument  at  last,  the  first  violin,  as  one  might 
say,  was  the  banjo.  It  had  but  four  strings,  not  six  :  beware  of 
the  dictionary.  It  is  not  the  "  favorite  musical  instrument  of  the 
negroes  of  the  Southern  States  of  America."  Uncle  Remus 
says  truly  that  that  is  the  fiddle  ;  but  for  the  true  African  dance, 
a  dance  not  so  much  of  legs  and  feet  as  of  the  upper  half  of  the 
body,  a  sensual,  devilish  thing  tolerated  only  by  Latin-American 
masters,  there  was  wanted  the  dark  inspiration  of  African  drums 
and  the  banjo's  thrump  and  strum. 


318     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

And  then  there  was  that  long-drawn  human  cry  of  tremen 
dous  volume,  richness,  and  resound,  to  which  no  instrument 
within  their  reach  could  make  the  faintest  approach : 

Eh !  pou'  la  belle  Layotte  ma  mourri  'nocent, 
Oui  'nocent  ma  mourri ! 

all  the  instruments  silent  while  it  rises  and  swells  with  mighty 
energy  and  dies  away  distantly,  "  Yea-a-a-a-a-a  !  "  —  then  the 
crash  of  savage  drums,  horns,  and  rattles  — 

For  the  fair  Layotte  I  must  crazy  die  ! 
Yes,  crazy  I  must  die  ! 

To  all  this. there  was  sometimes  added  a  Pan's-pipe  of  but 
three  reeds,  made  from  single  joints  of  the  common  brake  cane, 
and  called  by  English-speaking  negroes  "  the  quills."  .  .  . 

Such  was  the  full  band.  All  the  values  of  contrast  that  dis 
cord  can  furnish  must  have  been  present,  with  whatever  there 
is  of  ecstasy  in  maddening  repetition,  for  of  this  the  African 
can  never  have  too  much. 

And  yet  there  was  entertaining  variety.  Where  ?  In  the 
dance  !  There  was  constant,  exhilarating  novelty  —  endless 
invention  —  in  the  turning,  bowing,  arm-swinging,  posturing, 
and  leaping  of  the  dancers.  Moreover,  the  music  of  Congo 
Plains  was  not  tamed  to  mere  monotone.  Monotone  became 
subordinate  to  many  striking  qualities.  The  strain  was  wild. 
Its  contact  with  French  taste  gave  it  often  great  tenderness 
of  sentiment.  It  grew  in  fervor,  and  rose  and  sank,  and  rose 
again,  with  the  play  of  emotion  in  the  singers  and  dancers. 

III.    THE  GATHERING 

It  was  a  weird  one.  The  negro  of  colonial  Louisiana  was  a 
most  grotesque  figure.  He  was  nearly  naked.  Often  his  neck 
and  arms,  thighs,  shanks,  and  splay  feet  were  shrunken,  tough, 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON    CABLE  319 

sinewy  like  a  monkey's.  Sometimes  it  was  scant  diet  and  cruel 
labor  that  had  made  them  so.  Even  the  requirement  of  law 
was  only  that  he  should  have  not  less  than  a  barrel  of  corn  — 
nothing  else  —  a  month,  nor  get  more  than  thirty  lashes  to 
the  twenty-four  hours.  The  whole  world  was  crueler  those 
times  than  now ;  we  must  not  judge  them  by  our  own. 

Often  the  slave's  attire  was  only  a  cotton  shirt,  or  a  pair  of 
pantaloons  hanging  in  indecent  tatters  to  his  naked  waist.  The 
bondwoman  was  well  clad  who  had  on  as  much  as  a  coarse 
chemise  and  petticoat.  To  add  a  tignon  —  a  Madras  handker 
chief  twisted  into  a  turban  —  was  high  gentility,  and  the  num 
ber  of  kerchiefs  beyond  that  one  was  the  measure  of  absolute 
wealth.  Some  were  rich  in  tignons ;  especially  those  who  served 
within  the  house,  and  pleased  the  mistress,  or  even  the  master 
—  there  were  Hagars  in  those  days.  However,  Congo  Plains 
did  not  gather  the  house  servants  so  much  as  the  "  field-hands." 

These  came  in  troops.  See  them ;  wilder  than  gypsies ; 
wilder  than  the  Moors  and  Arabs  whose  strong  blood  and 
features  one  sees  at  a  glance  in  so  many  of  them ;  gangs,  — 
as  they  were  called,  —  gangs  and  gangs  of  them,  from  this  and 
that  and  yonder  direction ;  tall,  well-knit  Senegalese  from  Cape 
Verde,  black  as  ebony,  with  intelligent,  kindly  eyes  and  long, 
straight,  shapely  noses ;  Mandingoes,  from  the  Gambia  River, 
lighter  of  color,  of  cruder  form,  and  a  cunning  that  shows  in 
the  countenance ;  \vhose  enslavement  seems  specially  a  shame, 
their  nation  the  "  merchants  of  Africa,"  dwelling  in  towns, 
industrious,  thrifty,  skilled  in  commerce  and  husbandry,  and 
expert  in  the  working  of  metals,  even  to  silver  and  gold ;  and 
Fulahs,  playfully  miscalled  "  Poulards"  -—  fat  chickens,  —  of 
goodly  stature,  and  with  a  perceptible  rose  tint  in  the  cheeks ; 
and  Sosos,  famous  warriors,  dexterous  with  the  African  targe ; 
and  in  contrast  to  these,  with  small  ears,  thick  eyebrows,  bright 
eyes,  flat,  upturned  noses,  shining  skin,  wide  mouths  and  white 


320     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

teeth,  the  negroes  of  Guinea,  true  and  unmixed,  from  the  Gold 
Coast,  the  Slave  Coast,  and  the  Cape  of  Palms  —  not  from  the 
Grain  Coast;  the  English  had  that  trade.  See  them  come! 
Popoes,  Cotocolies,  Fidas,  Socoes,  Agwas,  short,  copper- 
colored  Mines  —  what  havoc  the  slavers  did  make  !  —  and 
from  interior  Africa  others  equally  proud  and  warlike :  fierce 
Nagoes  and  Fonds ;  tawny  Awassas ;  Iboes,  so  light-colored 
that  one  could  not  tell  them  from  mulattoes  but  for  their 
national  tattooing ;  and  the  half-civilized  and  quick-witted  but 
ferocious  Arada,  the  original  Voudoo  worshiper.  And  how 
many  more !  For  here  come,  also,  men  and  women  from  all 
that  great  Congo  coast,  —  Angola,  Malimbe,  Ambrice,  etc.,  — 
small,  good-natured,  sprightly  "  boys,"  and  gay,  garrulous 
"  gals,"  thick-lipped  but  not  tattooed ;  chattering,  chaffering, 
singing,  and  guffawing  as  they  come :  these  are  they  for  whom 
the  dance  and  the  place  are  named,  the  most  numerous  sort  of 
negro  in  the  colonies,  the  Congoes  and  Franc-Congoes,  and 
though  serpent  worshipers,  yet  the  gentlest  and  kindliest 
natures  that  came  from  Africa.  Such  was  the  company. 
Among  these  bossals  —  that  is,  native  Africans  —  there  was,  of 
course,  an  ever-growing  number  of  negroes  who  proudly  called 
themselves  Creole  negroes,  that  is,  born  in  America ; J  and 
at  the  present  time  there  is  only  here  and  there  an  old  native 
African  to  be  met  with,  vain  of  his  singularity  and  trembling 
on  his  staff. 

IV.    THE  BAMBOULA 

The  gathering  throng  closed  in  around,  leaving  unoccupied 
the  circle  indicated  by  the  crescent  of  musicians.  The  short, 
harsh  turf  was  the  dancing  floor.  The  crowd  stood.  Fancy  the 

1  This  broader  use  of  the  term  is  very  common.  The  Creole  f'  dialect "  is  the 
broken  English  of  the  Creoles,  while  the  Creole  patois  is  the  corrupt  French,  not 
of  the  Creoles,  but  rather  of  the  former  slave  race  in  the  country  of  the  Creoles. 
So  of  Creole  negroes  and  Creole  dances  and  songs.  [Author's  note.] 


GEORGE   WASHINGTON    CABLE  321 

picture.  The  pack  of  dark,  tattered  figures  touched  off  every 
here  and  there  with  the  bright  colors  of  a  Madras  tignon.  The 
squatting,  cross-legged  musicians.  The  low-roofed,  embowered 
town  off  in  front,  with  here  and  there  a  spire  lifting  a  finger  of 
feeble  remonstrance ;  the  flat,  grassy  plain  stretching  around 
and  behind,  dotted  with  black  stumps ;  in  the  distance  the 
pale-green  willow  undergrowth,  behind  it  the  cypriere —  the 
cypress  swamp  —  and  in  the  pale,  seven-times-heated  sky  the 
sun,  only  a  little  declined  to  south  and  westward,  pouring  down 
its  beams. 

With  what  particular  musical  movements  the  occasion  oegan 
does  not  now  appear.  May  be  with  very  slow  and  measured 
ones;  they  had  such  that  were  strange  and  typical.  I  have 
heard  the  negroes  sing  one  —  though  it  was  not  of  the  dance- 
ground  but  of  the  cane-field  —  that  showed  the  emphatic  bar 
barism  of  five  bars  to  the  line,  and  was  confined  to  four  notes 
of  the  open  horn. 

But  I  can  only  say  that  with  some  such  slow  and  quiet  strain 
the  dance  may  have  been  preluded.  It  suits  the  Ethiopian  fancy 
for  a  beginning  to  be  dull  and  repetitious ;  the  bottom  of  the 
ladder  must  be  on  the  ground. 

The  singers  almost  at  the  first  note  are  many.  At  the  end 
of  the  first  line  every  voice  is  lifted  up.  The  strain  is  given  the 
second  time  with  growing  spirit.  Yonder  glistening  black  Her 
cules,  who  plants  one  foot  forward,  lifts  his  head  and  bare, 
shining  chest,  and  rolls  out  the  song  from  a  mouth  and  throat 
like  a  cavern,  is  a  candio,  a  chief,  or  was  before  he  was  over 
thrown  in  battle  and  dragged  away,  his  village  burning  behind 
him,  from  the  mountains  of  High  Soudan.  That  is  an  African 
amulet  that  hangs  about  his  neck  —  a  greegree.  He  is  of  the 
Bambaras,  as  you  may  know  by  his  solemn  visage  and  the  long 
tattoo  streaks  running  down  from  the  temples  to  the  neck, 
broadest  in  the  middle,  like  knife-gashes.  See  his  play  of 


324     SOUTHERN   LIFE   IN   SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

[Joel  Chandler  Harris  was  born  in  Eatonton,  Georgia,  in  1848. 

He  left  school  at  the  age  of  twelve  to  go  to  the  farm  of  a  Mr. 

Turner,  nine  miles  from  Eaton- 
ton,  to  learn  the  printer's  trade 
in  connection  with  the  publi 
cation  of  a  newspaper.  Most 
of  his  training  for  his  future 
work  was  obtained  from  the 
books  of  Mr.  Turner's  library 
and  from  the  negroes  on  the 
plantation,  from  whom  he 
stored  his  mind  with  their  folk 
lore.  In  1876  Harris  became 
a  member  of  the  editorial  staff 
of  the  Atlanta  Constitution. 
For  this  paper  he  wrote  the 
negro  folk  tales  which  were 
gathered  into  the  volume 
"  Uncle  Remus  :  his  Songs  and 
Sayings,"  published  in  1880. 
This  book  at  once  gave  the 
author  a  national  reputation, 
which  has  been  sustained  by 

his   further  volumes   dealing  with   negro   folklore  and   the  life  of 

Georgia  country  people.    He  died  at  his  home,  "  Sign  of  the  Wren's 

Nest,"  in  a  suburb  of  Atlanta,  Georgia,  in  1908.] 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 


BRER  RABBIT  GROSSLY  DECEIVES  BRER  FOX 

When  the  little  boy,  whose  nights  with  Uncle  Remus  are  as 
entertaining  as  those  Arabian  ones  of  blessed  memory,  had 
finished  supper  the  other  evening  and  hurried  out  to  sit  with 
his  venerable  patron,  he  found  the  old  man  in  great  glee. 
Indeed,  Uncle  Remus  was  talking  and  laughing  to  himself  at 


JOEL  CHANDLER   HARRIS  325 

such  a  rate  that  the  little  boy  was  afraid  he  had  company.  The 
truth  is,  Uncle  Remus  had  heard  the  child  coming,  and  when 
the  rosy-cheeked  chap  put  his  head  in  the  door,  was  engaged 
in  a  monologue,  the  burden  of  which  seemed  to  be : 

Ole  Molly  Ha'r 
Wat  you  doirv  d'ar 
Settin'  in  de  cornder 
Smokin'  yo'  seegyar? 

As  a  matter  of  course,  this  vague  allusion  reminded  the  little 
boy  of  the  fact  that  the  wicked  Fox  was  still  in  pursuit  of  the 
Rabbit,  and  he  immediately  put  his  curiosity  in  the  shape  of  a 
question. 

"  Uncle  Remus,  did  the  Rabbit  have  to  go  clean  away  when 
he  got  loose  from  the  Tar-baby  ?  " 

"  Bless  grashus,  honey,  dat  he  did  n't.  Who  ?  Him  ?  You 
dunno  nuthin'  'tall  'bout  Brer  Rabbit  ef  dat 's  de  way  you  put- 
tin'  'em  down.  Wat  he  gwine  'way  fer  ?  He  mouter  stayed 
sorter  close  'twell  de  pitch  rub  off 'n  his  ha'r,  but  'twan't  menny 
days  'fo'  he  waz  lopin'  up  en  down  de  naberhood  same  ez  ever, 
en  I  dunno  ef  he  were  n't  mo'  sassier  den  befo', 

"  Seem  like  dat  de  tale  'bout  how  he  got  mixt  up  wid  de  Tar- 
baby  got  'roun'  'mongst  de  nabers.  Leas'ways,  Miss  Meadows 
en  de  gals  got  win'  un  it,  en  de  nex'  time  Brer  Rabbit  paid  um 
a  visit,  Miss  Meadows  tackled  'im  'bout  it,  en  de  gals  sot  up  a 
monst'us  gigglement.  Brer  Rabbit,  he  sot  up  des  ez  cool  ez 
a  cowcumber,  he  did,  en  let  'em  run  on." 

"  Who  was  Miss  Meadows,  L^ncle  Remus  ? "  inquired  the 
little  boy. 

"  Don'  ax  me,  honey.  She  was  in  de  tale,  en  de  tale  I  give 
you  like  hit  were  gun  ter  me.  Brer  Rabbit,  he  sot  dar,  he  did, 
sorter  lam'like,  en  den  bimeby  he  cross  his  legs,  he  did,  en 
wink  his  eye  slow  en  up  en  say,  sezee : 


326     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

: '  Ladies,  Brer  Fox  wuz  my  daddy's  ridin'  boss  fer  thirty 
year ;  maybe  mo',  but  thirty  year  dat  I  knows  un ! '  sezee,  en 
den  he  paid  'em  his  'spects,  en  tip  his  beaver,  en  march  off,  he 
did,  des  ez  stiff  en  ez  stuck  up  ez  a  fire-stick. 

"  Nex'  day,  Brer  Fox  cum  callin',  en  w'en  he  gun  fer  ter  laff 
'bout  Brer  Rabbit,  Miss  Meadows  en  de  gals,  dey  ups  en  tells 
'im  'bout  w'at  Brer  Rabbit  said.  Den  Brer  Fox  grit  his  toof 
sho'  nuff,  he  did,  en  he  look  mighty  dumpy,  but  w'en  he  riz  fer 
ter  go,  he  up  en  say,  sezee : 

' '  Ladies,  I  ain't  'sputin'  w'at  you  say,  but  I  '11  make  Brer 
Rabbit  chaw  up  his  words  en  spit  um  out  right  here  whar  you 
kin  see  'im,'  sezee,  en  wid  dat  off  Brer  Fox  marcht. 

"  En  w'en  he  got  in  de  big  road,  he  shuck  de  dew  off'n  his 
tail,  en  made  a  straight  shoot  fer  Brer  Rabbit's  house.  W'en 
he  got  dar,  Brer  Rabbit  wuz  'spectin'  un  'im,  en  de  do'  was 
shet  fas'.  Brer  Fox  knock.  Nobody  never  ans'er.  Brer  Fox 
knock.  Nobody  ans'er.  Den  he  knock  ag'in  —  blam,  blam. 
Den  Brer  Rabbit  holler  out  mighty  weak : 

' '  Is  dat  you,  Brer  Fox  ?  I  want  you  to  run  fer  ter  fetch  de 
doctor.  Dat  bait  er  pusly  w'at  I  et  dis  mawnin'  is  gittin'  'way 
wid  me.  Do  please  run  quick,  Brer  Fox/  sez  Brer  Rabbit, 
sezee. 

'  *  I  come  atter  you,  Brer  Rabbit,'  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee. 
*  Dere  's  gwineter  be  a  party  over  at  Miss  Meadows's,'  sezee. 
'  All  de  gals  '11  be  dere,  en  I  promus'  dat  I'd  fetch  you.  De 
gals,  dey  'lowed  dat  hit  would  n't  be  no  party  'ceppin'  I  fotch 
you,'  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee. 

"  Den  Brer  Rabbit  say  he  was  too  sick,  en  Brer  Fox  say  he 
wuzzent,  en  dar  dey  had  it  up  and  down,  'sputin'  en  contendin'. 
Brer  Rabbit  say  he  could  n't  walk.  Brer  Fox  say  he  'd  tote  'im. 
Brer  Rabbit  say  how  ?  Brer  Fox  say  in  his  arms.  Brer  Rabbit 
say  he  'd  drap  'im.  Brer  Fox  'low  he  would  n't.  Bimeby,  Brer 
Rabbit  say  he  'd  go  ef  Brer  Fox  tote  'im  on  his  back.  Brer  Fox 


JOEL   CHANDLER   HARRIS  327 

say  he  would.  Brer  Rabbit  say  he  could  n't  ride  widout  a 
saddle.  Brer  Fox  say  he  'd  git  de  saddle.  Brer  Rabbit  say  he 
could  n't  set  in  de  saddle  less  he  had  bridle  fer  ter  hoi'  by.  Brer 
Fox  say  he  'd  git  de  bridle.  Brer  Rabbit  say  he  could  n't  ride 
widout  bline-bridle,  kaze  Brer  Fox  'd  be  shyin'  at  stumps  'long 
de  road,  en  fling  'im  off.  Brer  Fox  say  he  'd  git  de  bline-bridle. 
Den  Brer  Rabbit  say  he  ''d  go.  Den  Brer  Fox  say  he  'd  ride 
Brer  Rabbit  mos'  up  ter  Miss  Meadows's  en  den  he  could  git 
down  en  walk  de  balance  er  de  way.  Brer  Rabbit  'greed,  en 
den  Brer  Fox  lipt  out  atter  de  saddle  en  bridle. 

"  Co'se  Brer  Rabbit  know'd  de  game  dat  Brer  Fox  wuz  fixin' 
fer  ter  play,  en  he  'termined  fer  ter  outdo  'im,  en  by  de  time  he 
koam  his  ha'r  en  twis'  his  mustash,  en  sorter  rig  up,  here  come 
Brer  Fox,  saddle  en  bridle  on,  en  lookin'  ez  peart  ez  a  circus 
pony.  He  trot  up  ter  de  do'  en  stood  dar  pawin'  de  groun'  en 
chompin'  de  bit  same  like  sho'  nuff  hoss,  en  Brer  Rabbit  he 
mounted,  he  did,  en  dey  amble  off.  Brer  Fox  could  n't  see 
behine  wid  de  bline-bridle  on,  but  bimeby  he  feel  Brer  Rabbit 
raise  one  er  his  foots. 

:  *  Wat  you  doin't  now,  Brer  Rabbit  ? '  sezee. 

"  '  Short'nin'  de  lef  stir'p,  Brer  Fox,'  sezee. 

"  Bimeby,  Brer  Rabbit  raise  up  de  udder  foot. 
'  *  Wat  you  doin't  now,  Brer  Rabbit  ? '  sezee. 
* '  Pullin'  down  my  pants,  Brer  Fox,'  sezee. 

"  All  de  time,  bless  grashus,  honey,  Brer  Rabbit  were  puttin' 
on  his  spurrers  en  w'en  dey  got  close  to  Miss  Meadows's,  whar 
Brer  Rabbit  wuz  to  git  off,  en  Brer  Fox  made  a  motion  fer  ter 
put  on  brakes,  Brer  Rabbit  slap  de  spurrers  inter  Brer  Fox's 
flanks,  en  you  better  b'leeve  he  got  over  groun'.  W'en  dey  got 
ter  de  house,  Miss  Meadows  en  all  de  gals  wuz  er  settin'  on  de 
peazzer,  en  'stidder  stoppin'  at  de  gate,  Brer  Rabbit  rid  on  by, 
he  did,  en  come  gallopin'  down  de  road  en  up  ter  de  hoss  rack, 
w'ich  he  hitch  Brer  Fox  at,  en  den  he  santer  inter  de  house, 


326     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

; '  Ladies,  Brer  Fox  wuz  my  daddy's  ridin'  boss  fer  thirty 
year ;  maybe  mo',  but  thirty  year  dat  I  knows  un ! '  sezee,  en 
den  he  paid  'em  his  'spects,  en  tip  his  beaver,  en  march  off,  he 
did,  des  ez  stiff  en  ez  stuck  up  ez  a  fire-stick. 

"  Nex'  day,  Brer  Fox  cum  callin',  en  w'en  he  gun  fer  ter  laff 
'bout  Brer  Rabbit,  Miss  Meadows  en  de  gals,  dey  ups  en  tells 
'im  'bout  w'at  Brer  Rabbit  said.  Den  Brer  Fox  grit  his  toof 
sho'  nuff,  he  did,  en  he  look  mighty  dumpy,  but  w'en  he  riz  fer 
ter  go,  he  up  en  say,  sezee : 

' '  Ladies,  I  ain't  'sputin'  w'at  you  say,  but  I  '11  make  Brer 
Rabbit  chaw  up  his  words  en  spit  um  out  right  here  whar  you 
kin  see  'im,'  sezee,  en  wid  dat  off  Brer  Fox  marcht. 

"  En  w'en  he  got  in  de  big  road,  he  shuck  de  dew  off'n  his 
tail,  en  made  a  straight  shoot  fer  Brer  Rabbit's  house.  W'en 
he  got  dar,  Brer  Rabbit  wuz  'spectin'  un  'im,  en  de  do'  was 
shet  fas'.  Brer  Fox  knock.  Nobody  never  ans'er.  Brer  Fox 
knock.  Nobody  ans'er.  Den  he  knock  ag'in  —  blam,  blam. 
Den  Brer  Rabbit  holler  out  mighty  weak : 

' '  Is  dat  you,  Brer  Fox  ?  I  want  you  to  run  fer  ter  fetch  de 
doctor.  Dat  bait  er  pusly  w'at  I  et  dis  mawnin'  is  gittin'  'way 
wid  me.  Do  please  run  quick,  Brer  Fox,'  sez  Brer  Rabbit, 
sezee. 

'  *  I  come  atter  you,  Brer  Rabbit,'  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee. 
*  Dere  's  gwineter  be  a  party  over  at  Miss  Meadows's,'  sezee. 
'  All  de  gals  '11  be  dere,  en  I  promus'  dat  I'd  fetch  you.  De 
gals,  dey  'lowed  dat  hit  would  n't  be  no  party  'ceppin'  I  fotch 
you,'  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee. 

"  Den  Brer  Rabbit  say  he  was  too  sick,  en  Brer  Fox  say  he 
wuzzent,  en  dar  dey  had  it  up  and  down,  'sputin'  en  contendin'. 
Brer  Rabbit  say  he  could  n't  walk.  Brer  Fox  say  he  'd  tote  'im. 
Brer  Rabbit  say  how  ?  Brer  Fox  say  in  his  arms.  Brer  Rabbit 
say  he  'd  drap  'im.  Brer  Fox  'low  he  would  n't.  Bimeby,  Brer 
Rabbit  say  he  'd  go  ef  Brer  Fox  tote  'im  on  his  back.  Brer  Fox 


JOEL   CHANDLER   HARRIS  327 

say  he  would.  Brer  Rabbit  say  he  could  n't  ride  \vidout  a 
saddle.  Brer  Fox  say  he  'd  git  de  saddle.  Brer  Rabbit  say  he 
could  n't  set  in  de  saddle  less  he  had  bridle  fer  ter  hoi'  by.  Brer 
Fox  say  he  'd  git  de  bridle.  Brer  Rabbit  say  he  could  n't  ride 
widout  bline-bridle,  kaze  Brer  Fox  'd  be  shyin'  at  stumps  'long 
de  road,  en  fling  'im  off.  Brer  Fox  say  he  'd  git  de  bline-bridle. 
Den  Brer  Rabbit  say  he  'd  go.  Den  Brer  Fox  say  he  'd  ride 
Brer  Rabbit  mos'  up  ter  Miss  Meadows's  en  den  he  could  git 
down  en  walk  de  balance  er  de  way.  Brer  Rabbit  'greed,  en 
den  Brer  Fox  lipt  out  atter  de  saddle  en  bridle. 

"  Co'se  Brer  Rabbit  know'd  de  game  dat  Brer  Fox  wuz  fixin' 
fer  ter  play,  en  he  'termined  fer  ter  outdo  'im,  en  by  de  time  he 
koam  his  ha'r  en  twis'  his  mustash,  en  sorter  rig  up,  here  come 
Brer  Fox,  saddle  en  bridle  on,  en  lookin'  ez  peart  ez  a  circus 
pony.  He  trot  up  ter  de  do'  en  stood  dar  pawin'  de  groun'  en 
chompin'  de  bit  same  like  sho'  nuff  hoss,  en  Brer  Rabbit  he 
mounted,  he  did,  en  dey  amble  off.  Brer  Fox  could  n't  see 
behine  wid  de  bline-bridle  on,  but  bimeby  he  feel  Brer  Rabbit 
raise  one  er  his  foots. 

!  *  Wat  you  doin't  now,  Brer  Rabbit  ? '  sezee. 

' '  Short'nin'  de  lef  stir'p,  Brer  Fox,'  sezee. 

"  Bimeby,  Brer  Rabbit  raise  up  de  udder  foot. 

"  '  Wat  you  doin't  now,  Brer  Rabbit  ? '  sezee. 

*  *  Pullin'  down  my  pants,  Brer  Fox,'  sezee. 

"  All  de  time,  bless  grashus,  honey,  Brer  Rabbit  were  puttin' 
on  his  spurrers  en  w'en  dey  got  close  to  Miss  Meadows's,  whar 
Brer  Rabbit  wuz  to  git  off,  en  Brer  Fox  made  a  motion  fer  ter 
put  on  brakes,  Brer  Rabbit  slap  de  spurrers  inter  Brer  Fox's 
flanks,  en  you  better  b'leeve  he  got  over  groun'.  Wen  dey  got 
ter  de  house,  Miss  Meadows  en  all  de  gals  wuz  er  settin'  on  de 
peazzer,  en  'stidder  stoppin'  at  de  gate,  Brer  Rabbit  rid  on  by, 
he  did,  en  come  gallopin'  down  de  road  en  up  ter  de  hoss  rack, 
w'ich  he  hitch  Brer  Fox  at,  en  den  he  santer  inter  de  house, 


328     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

he  did,  en  shake  han's  wid  de  gals  en  set  dar  smokin'  his 
seegyar  same  ez  town  man.  Bimeby,  he  draw  in  long  puff  en 
den  let  hit  out  in  er  cloud,  en  squar'  hisse'f  back,  en  holler  out, 
he  did : 

' '  Ladies,  ain't  I  done  tell  you  Brer  Fox  wuz  de  ridin'  hoss 
fer  our  fambly  ?  He  's  sorter  losin'  his  gait  now,  but  I  'speck 
I  kin  fetch  'im  all  right  in  a  mont'  er  so,'  sezee. 

"  En  den  Brer  Rabbit  smile,  he  did,  en  de  gals  giggle,  en  Miss 
Meadows,  she  praise  up  de  pony,  en  dar  wuz  Brer  Fox  hitch 
fas'  ter  de  rack  en  couldn't  he'p  hisse'f." 

"  Is  that  all,  Uncle  Remus  ? "  asked  the  little  boy  as  the  old 
man  paused. 

"  Dat  ain't  all,  honey,  but  't  won't  do  fer  to  give  out  too 
much  cloff  fer  ter  cut  one  pa'r  pants,"  replied  the  old  man 
sententiously. 

THE  CUNNING  FOX  IS  AGAIN  VICTIMIZED 

When  "  Miss  Sally's  "  little  boy  went  to  Uncle  Remus  the 
next  night  to  hear  the  conclusion  of  the  adventure  in  which  the 
Rabbit  made  a  riding  horse  of  the  Fox  to  the  great  enjoyment 
and  gratification  of  Miss  Meadows  and  the  girls,  he  found  the 
old  man  in  a  bad  humor. 

"  I  ain't  tellin'  no  tales  ter  bad  chilluns,"  said  Uncle  Remus, 
curtly. 

"  But,  Uncle  Remus,  I  ain't  bad,"  said  the  little  boy,  plain 
tively. 

"  Who  dat  chunkin'  dem  chickens  dis  mawnin'  ?  Who  dat 
knockin'  out  fokes's  eyes  wid  dat  Yaller-bammer  sling  des  'fo' 
dinner  ?  Who  dat  sickin'  dat  pinter  puppy  atter  my  pig  ?  Who 
dat  scatterin'  my  ingun  sets  ?  Who  dat  flingin'  rocks  on  top  er 
my  house,  w'ich  a  little  mo'  en  one  un  um  would  er  drapt  spang 
on  my  head  ?  " 


JOEL   CHANDLER   HARRIS  329 

"  Well,  now,  Uncle  Remus,  I  did  n't  go  to  do  it.  I  won't  do 
so  any  more.  Please,  Uncle  Remus,  if  you  will  tell  me  I  '11  run 
in  the  house  and  bring  you  some  tea-cakes.'' 

"  Seein  's  better  'n  hearin'  tell  un  um,"  replied  the  old  man, 
the  severity  of  his  countenance  relaxing  into  a  smile ;  but  the 
little  boy  darted  out  and  in  a  few  minutes  came  running  back 
with  his  pockets  full  and  his  hands  full. 

"  I  lay  yo'  mammy  '11  'spishun  dat  de  rats'  stummucks  is 
widenin'  in  dis  naberhood,  w'en  she  come  fer  ter  count  up  'er 
cakes,"  said  Uncle  Remus,  with  a  chuckle.  "  Deze,"  he  con 
tinued,  dividing  the  cakes  into  two  equal  parts,  "  deze  I  '11 
tackle  now,  en  deze  I  '11  lay  by  fer  Sunday. 

"  Lemme  see.  I  mos'  dis'member  wharbouts  Brer  Fox  en 
Brer  Rabbit  wuz." 

"  The  Rabbit  rode  the  Fox  to  Miss  Meadows's  and  hitched 
him  to  the  horse  rack,"  said  the  little  boy. 

"  W'y  co'se  he  did,"  said  Uncle  Remus,  "  co'se  he  did.  Well, 
Brer  Rabbit  rid  Brer  Fox  up,  he  did,  en  tied  'im  to  de  rack,  en 
sot  out  in  de  peazzer  wid  de  gals  smokin'  er  his  seegyar  wid 
mo'  proudness  dan  w'at  you  mos'  ever  see.  Dey  talk,  en  dey 
sing,  en  dey  play  on  de  peanner,  de  gals  did,  twell  bimeby 
hit  come  time  fer  Brer  Rabbit  fer  to  be  gwine,  en  he  tell  um 
all  good-bye,  en  strut  out  to  de  hoss  rack  same  's  ef  he  wuz 
de  king  er  de  patter-rollers,  en  den  he  mounted  Brer  Fox  and 
rid  off. 

"  Brer  Fox  ain't  sayin'  nothin'  'tall.  He  des  rack  off  en  keep 
his  mouf  shet,  en  Brer  Rabbit  know'd  der  wuz  bizness  cookin' 
up  fer  him,  en  he  feel  monst'us  skittish.  Brer  Fox  amble  on 
twell  he  got  in  de  long  land  outer  sight  er  Miss  Meadows's  house, 
en  den  he  turn  loose,  he  did.  He  rip  en  he  r'ar  en  he  cuss  en 
he  swar ;  he  snort  en  he  cavort." 

"  What  was  he  doing  that  for,  Uncle  Remus  ?  "  the  little  boy 
inquired. 


330     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN   SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

"  He  wuz  tryin'  fer  ter  fling  Brer  Rabbit,  bless  yo'  soul.  But 
he  des  might  ez  well  er  rastled  wid  his  own  shadder.  Ev'y  time 
he  hump  hisse'f,  Brer  Rabbit  slap  de  spurrers  in  'im,  en  dar 
dey  had  it  up  en  down.  Brer  Fox  fa'rly  to'  up  de  groun',  he  did, 
en  he  jump  so  high  en  he  jump  so  quick  dat  he  mighty  nigh 
snatch  his  own  tail  off.  Dey  kep'  on  gwine  on  dis  way  twell 
bimeby  Brer  Fox  lay  down  en  roll  over,  he  did,  en  dis  sorter 
unsettle  Brer  Rabbit,  but  by  de  time  Brer  Fox  got  back  on  his 
footses  ag'in,  Brer  Rabbit  wruz  gwine  thoo  de  underbresh  mo' 
samer  dan  a  race  hoss.  Brer  Fox,  he  lit  out  atter  'im,  he  did,  en 
he  push  Brer  Rabbit  so  close  dat  it  wuz  'bout  all  he  could  do  fer 
ter  git  in  a  holler  tree.  Hole  too  little  fer  Brer  Fox  fer  ter  git 
in,  en  he  hatter  lay  down  en  res'  en  gedder  his  mine  tergedder. 

"  While  he  wuz  layin'  dar  Mr.  Buzzard  come  floppin'  'long  en 
seem'  Brer  Fox  stretch  out  on  de  groun'  he  lit  en  view  de 
premusses.  Den  Mr.  Buzzard  sorter  shake  his  wing,  en  put  his 
head  on  one  side,  en  say  to  hisse'f  like,  sezee : 

5  f  Brer  Fox  dead,  en  I  so  sorry,'  sezee. 

" '  No  I  ain't  dead  nudder,'  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee.  *  I  got  ole 
man  Rabbit  pent  up  in  here,'  sezee,  'en  I'm  gwineter  git  ?im 
dis  time  ef  it  takes  twell  Chris'mus,'  sezee. 

"  Den  atter  some  mo'  palaver,  Brer  Fox  make  a  bargain  dat 
Mr.  Buzzard  wuz  ter  watch  de  hole  en  keep  Brer  Rabbit  dar 
w'ilst  Brer  Fox  went  atter  his  axe.  Den  Brer  Fox,  he  lope 
off,  he  did,  en  Mr.  Buzzard,  he  tuck  up  his  stan'  at  de  hole. 
Bimeby,  w'en  all  got  still,  Brer  Rabbit  sorter  scramble  down 
close  ter  de  hole,  he  did,  en  holler  out : 

"  '  Brer  Fox  !  oh,  Brer  Fox  ! ' 

"  Brer  Fox  done  gone,  en  nobody  say  nuthin'.  Den  Brer 
Rabbit  squall  out  like  he  wuz  mad,  sezee : 

'  'You  needn't  talk  les'  you  wanter,'  sezee.  'I  knows  youer 
dar,  en  I  ain't  keerin,'  sezee.  '  I  des  wanter  tell  you  dat  I  wish 
mighty  bad  Brer  Turkey  Buzzard  wuz  here,'  sezee. 


JOEL   CHANDLER   HARRIS  331 

"  Den  Mr.  Buzzard  try  to  talk  like  Brer  Fox : 
'  *  Wat  you  want  wid  Mr.  Buzzard  ? '  sezee. 
1  '  Oh,  nothin'  'tickler,  'cep'  dere  's  de  fattes'  gray  squir'l  in 
yer  dat  I  ever  see,'  sezee,  *  en  ef  Brer  Turkey  Buzzard  was 
'roun'  he  'd  be  mighty  glad  fer  ter  git  'im,'  sezee. 

: '  How  Mr.  Buzzard  gwine  ter  git  'im  ? '  sez  de  Buzzard, 
sezee. 

:  '  Well,  dar  's  a  little  hole  'roun'  on  de  udder  side  er  de  tree,' 
sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee,  '  en  ef  Brer  Turkey  Buzzard  wuz  here 
so  he  could  take  up  his  stan'  dar,'  sezee,  *  I  could  drive  de 
squir'l  out,'  sezee. 

"  Den  Brer  Rabbit  kick  up  a  racket  like  he  wer'  drivin'  sumpin' 
out,  en  Mr.  Buzzard  he  rush  'roun'  fer  ter  ketch  de  squir'l,  en 
Brer  Rabbit,  he  dash  out,  he  did,  en  he  des  fly  fer  home." 

At  this  point,  fncle  Remus  took  one  of  the  tea-cakes,  held 
his  head  back,  opened  his  mouth,  dropped  the  cake  in  with  a 
sudden  motion,  looked  at  the  little  boy  with  an  expression  of 
astonishment,  and  then  closed  his  eyes  and  began  to  chew, 
mumbling  as  an  accompaniment  the  plaintive  tune  of  "  Don't 
you  grieve  atter  me." 

The  se'ance  was  over ;  but  before  the  little  boy  went  into  the 
"  big  house,"  U ncle  Remus  laid  his  rough  hand  tenderly  on  the 
child's  shoulder  and  remarked  in  a  confidential  tone : 

"  Honey,  you  mus'  git  up  soon  Chris'mus  mawnin'  en  open 
de  do' ;  kaze  I'm  gwineter  bounce  in  on  Marse  John  en  Miss 
Sally,  en  holler  '  Chris'mus  gif','  des  like  I  useter  endurin'  de 
fahmin'  days  'fo'  de  war,  w'en  ole  Miss  wuz  'live.  I  boun'  dey 
don't  fergit  de  ole  nigger,  nudder.  W'en  you  hear  me  callin'  de 
pigs,  honey,  you  des  hop  up  en  onfassen  de  do'.  I  lay  I  '11  give 
Marse  John  wunner  deze  yer  'sprize  parties." 


332     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 


MARY  NOAILLES   MURFREE  ("CHARLES   EGBERT 
CRADDOCK  ") 

[Mary  Noailles  Murfree,  known  in  literature  as  Charles  Egbert 
Craddock,  was  born  near  Murfreesboro,  Tennessee,  in  1850.    Being 

left  slightly  lame  from  a  stroke 
of  paralysis  when  a  child,  she 
devoted  herself  largely  to  read 
ing  and  study.  For  many  years 
she  spent  her  summers  in  the 
mountains  of  East  Tennessee, 
and  thus  she  became  familiar 
with  the  material  that  appears 
in  her  stories  —  the  beauty  of 
the  mountains  and  the  primitive 
life  of  the  mountaineers.  In 
1884  she  collected  her  earliest 
stories  into  a  volume  entitled 
"  In  the  Tennessee  Mountains." 

l(i®i»^  This  has  been  followed  by  other 

volumes  about  the  mountaineers, 
novels  of  life  in  other  sections 

MARY  NOAILLES  MURFREE  °f  the  S°Uth'  ™d  Vaii°US  ™&- 

zme  articles.     For  a  number  of 

years  after  the  war  the  Murfree  family  lived  in  St.  Louis,  returning 
in  1890  to  Murfreesboro,  which  has  since  been  the  novelist's  home.] 


THE  "HARNT"  THAT  WALKS  CHILHOWEE1 

The  breeze  freshened,  after  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  hop 
and  gourd  vines  were  all  astir  as  they  clung  about  the  little 
porch  where  Clarsie  was  sitting  now,  idle  at  last.  The  rain- 
clouds  had  disappeared,  and  there  bent  over  the  dark,  heavily 
wooded  ridges  a  pale  blue  sky,  with  here  and  there  the  crys 
talline  sparkle  of  a  star.  A  halo  was  shimmering  in  the  east, 

1  Reprinted  from  "  In  the  Tennessee  Mountains  "  by  special  arrangement 
with  the  holders  of  the  copyright,  Hough  ton  Mifflin  Company. 


MARY   NOAILLES   MURFREE  333 

where  the  mists  had  gathered  about  the  great  white  moon, 
hanging  high  above  the  mountains.  Noiseless  wings  flitted 
through  the  dusk ;  now  and  then  the  bats  swept  by  so  close  as 
to  wave  Clarsie's  hair  with  the  wind  of  their  flight.  What  an 
airy,  glittering,  magical  thing  was  that  gigantic  spider-web  sus 
pended  between  the  silver  moon  and  her  shining  eyes !  Ever 
and  anon  there  came  from  the  woods  a  strange,  weird,  long- 
drawn  sigh,  unlike  the  stir  of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  unlike  the 
fret  of  the  water  on  the  rocks.  Was  it  the  voiceless  sorrow  of 
the  sad  earth  ?  There  were  stars  in  the  night  besides  those 
known  to  astronomers :  the  stellular  fire-flies  gemmed  the  black 
shadows  with  a  fluctuating  brilliancy;  they  circled  in  and  out 
of  the  porch,  and  touched  the  leaves  above  Clarsie's  head  with 
quivering  points  of  light.  A  steadier  and  an  intenser  gleam  was 
advancing  along  the  road,  and  the  sound  of  languid  footsteps 
came  with  it ;  the  aroma  of  tobacco  graced  the  atmosphere,  and 
a  tall  figure  walked  up  to  the  gate. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,"  said  Peter  Giles,  rising,  and  tendering 
the  guest  a  chair.  "  Ye  air  Tom  Pratt,  ez  well  ez  I  kin  make 
out  by  this  light.  Waal,  Tom,  we  hain't  furgot  ye  sence  ye  done 
been  hyar." 

As  Tom  had  been  there  on  the  previous  evening,  this  might 
be  considered  a  joke,  or  an  equivocal  compliment.  The  young 
fellow  was  restless  and  awkward  under  it,  but  Mrs.  Giles  chuckled 
with  great  merriment.  .  .  . 

"  Waal,"  said  Peter  Giles,  "  what 's  the  news  out  yer  way, 
Tom  ?  En  ny thing  a-goin'  on  ? " 

"  Thar  war  a  shower  yander  on  the  Backbone ;  it  rained 
toler'ble  hard  fur  a  while,  an'  sot  up  the  corn  wonderful.  Did 
ye  git  enny  hyar  ? " 

"  Not  a  drap." 

"  'Pears  ter  me  ez  I  kin  see  the  clouds  a-circlirv  round 
Chilhowee,  an'  a-rainin'  on  even-body's  cornfield  'ceptin'  ourn," 


334     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

said  Mrs.  Giles.  "  Some  folks  is  the  favored  of  the  Lord,  an' 
t'others  hev  ter  work  fur  everything  an'  git  nuthin'.  Waal, 
waal ;  we-uns  will  see  our  reward  in  the  nex'  worl'.  Thar  's 
a  better  worl'  than  this,  Tom." 

"  That 's  a  fac',"  said  Tom,  in  orthodox  assent. 

"An'  when  we  leaves  hyar  once,  we  leaves  all  trouble  an' 
care  behind  us,  Tom ;  fur  we  don't  come  back  no  more." 
Mrs.  Giles  was  drifting  into  one  of  her  pious  moods. 

"  I  dunno,"  said  Tom.     "  Thar  hev  been  them  ez  hev." 

"  Hev  what?  "  demanded  Peter  Giles,  startled. 

"  Hev  come  back  ter  this  hyar  yearth.  Thar's  a  harnt  that 
walks  Chilhowee  every  night  o'  the  worl'.  I  know  them  ez  hev 
seen  him." 

Clarsie's  great  dilated  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  speaker's 
face.  There  was  a  dead  silence  for  a  moment,  more  eloquent 
with  these  looks  of  amazement  than  any  words  could  have  been. 

"  I  reckons  ye  remember  a  puny,  shriveled  little  man,  named 
Reuben  Crabb,  ez  used  ter  live  yander,  eight  mile  along  the  ridge 
ter  that  thar  big  sulphur  spring,"  Tom  resumed,  appealing  to 
Peter  Giles.  "  He  war  born  with  only  one  arm." 

"  I  'members  him,"  interpolated  Mrs.  Giles,  vivaciously.  "  He 
war  a  mighty  porely,  sickly  little  critter,  all  the  days  of  his  life. 
'T  war  a  wonder  he  war  ever  raised  ter  be  a  man,  —  an'  a  pity, 
too.  An'  't  war  powerful  comical,  the  way  of  his  takin'  off ;  a 
stunted,  one-armed  little  critter  a-ondertakin'  ter  fight  folks  an' 
shoot  pistols.  He  hed  the  use  o'  his  one  arm,  sure." 

"  Waal,"  said  Tom,  "  his  house  ain't  thar  now,  'kase  Sam 
Grim's  brothers  burned  it  ter  the  ground  fur  his  a-killin'  of 
Sam.  That  war  n't  all  that  war  done  ter  Reuben  fur  killin' 
of  Sam.  The  sheriff  run  Reuben  Crabb  down  this  hyar  road 
'bout  a  mile  from  hyar,  —  mebbe  less,  —  an'  shot  him  dead  in 
the  road,  jes'  whar  it  forks.  Waal,  Reuben  war  in  company 
with  another  evil-doer,  —  he  war  from  the  Cross-Roads,  an'  I 


MARY   NOAILLES    MURFREE  335 

furgits  what  he  hed  done,  but  he  war  a-tryin'  ter  hide  in  the 
mountings,  too ;  an'  the  sheriff  lef '  Reuben  a-lyin'  thar  in  the 
road,  while  he  tries  ter  ketch  up  with  the  t'other ;  but  his  horse 
got  a  stone  in  his  hoof,  an'  he  los'  time,  an'  hed  ter  gin  it  up. 
An'  when  he  got  back  ter  the  forks  o'  the  road  whar  he  had 
lef  Reuben  a-lyin'  dead,  thar  war  nuthin'  thar  'ceptin'  a  pool 
o?  blood.  Waal,  he  went  right  on  ter  Reuben's  house,  an'  them 
Grim  boys  hed  burnt  it  ter  the  ground ;  but  he  seen  Reuben's 
brother  Joel.  An'  Joel,  he  tole  the  sheriff  that  late  that  evenin' 
he  hed  tuk  Reuben's  body  out  'n  the  road  an'  buried  it,  'kase  it 
hed  been  lyin'  thar  in  the  road  ever  sence  early  in  the  mornin', 
an'  he  could  n't  leave  it  thar  all  night,  an'  he  hed  n't  no  shelter  fur 
it,  sence  the  Grim  boys  hed  burnt  down  the  house.  So  he  war 
obleeged  ter  bun-  it.  An'  Joel  showed  the  sheriff  a  new-made 
grave,  an'  Reuben's  coat  whar  the  sheriff's  bullet  hed  gone  in 
at  the  back  an'  kem  out  'n  the  breast.  The  sheriff  'lowed  ez 
they  'd  fine  Joel  fifty  dollars  fur  a-buryin'  of  Reuben  afore  the 
cor'ner  kem  ;  but  they  never  done  it,  ez  I  knows  on.  The  sheriff 
said  that  when  the  cor'ner  kem  the  body  would  be  tuk  up  fur 
a  'quest.  But  thar  hed  been  a  powerful  big  frishet,  a'n'  the 
river  'twixt  the  cor'ner's  house  an'  Chilhowee  could  n't  be  forded 
fur  three  weeks.  The  cor'ner  never  kem,  an'  so  thar  it  all  stayed. 
That  \var  four  year  ago/' 

"  Waal,"  said  Peter  Giles,  dryly,  "  I  ain't  seen  no  harnt  yit. 
I  knowed  all  that  afore." 

Clarsie's  wondering  eyes  upon  the  young  man's  moonlit  face 
had  elicited  these  facts,  familiar  to  the  elders,  but  strange,  he 
knew,  to  her. 

"  I  war  jes'  a-goin'  on  ter  tell,"  said  Tom,  abashed.  "  Waal, 
ever  sence  his  brother  Joel  died,  this  spring,  Reuben's  harnt 
walks  Chilhowee."  .  .  . 

"  My  Lord  !  "  exclaimed  Peter  Giles.  "  I  'low  I  could  n't  live 
a  minit  ef  I  war  ter  see  that  thar  harnt  that  walks  Chilhowee !  " 


336     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"  I  know  /couldn't,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Nor  me,  nuther,"  murmured  Clarsie.  .  .  . 

"  Tears  ter  me,"  said  Mrs.  Giles,  "  ez  many  mountings  ez 
thar  air  round  hyar,  he  mought  hev  tuk  ter  walkin'  some  o' 
them,  stiddier  Chilhowee." 

[When  the  young  man  had  taken  his  leave,  and  the  house 
hold  had  retired,  Clarsie,  finding  herself  unable  to  sleep,  arose 
and  stole  from  the  house  to  try  a  method  of  telling  fortunes  she 
knew  in  order  to  determine  whether  she  was  really  going  to 
marry  Sam  Burney.  While  she  was  engaged  in  these  procedures, 
she  became  aware  of  a  stirring  in  the  laurel  bushes.] 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  dense  growth  with  a  morbid 
fascination,  as  she  moved  away ;  but  she  was  once  more  rooted 
to  the  spot  when  the  leaves  parted  and  in  the  golden  moonlight 
the  ghost  stood  before  her.  She  could  not  nerve  herself  to  run 
past  him,  and  he  was  directly  in  her  way  homeward.  His  face 
was  white,  and  lined,  and  thin ;  that  pitiful  quiver  was  never 
still  in  the  parted  lips  ;  he  looked  at  her  with  faltering,  beseech 
ing  eyes.  Clarsie's  merciful  heart  was  stirred.  "  What  ails  ye, 
ter  come  back  hyar,  an'  f oiler  me  ? "  she  cried  out  abruptly. 
And  then  a  great  horror  fell  upon  her.  Was  not  one  to  whom 
a  ghost  should  speak  doomed  to  death,  sudden  and  immediate  ? 

The  ghost  replied  in  a  broken,  shivering  voice,  like  a  wail 
of  pain,  "  I  war  a-starvin',  —  I  war  a-starvin',"  with  despairing 
iteration. 

It  was  all  over,  Clarsie  thought.  The  ghost  had  spoken,  and 
she  was  a  doomed  creature.  She  wondered  that  she  did  not  fall 
dead  in  the  road.  While  those  beseeching  eyes  were  fastened 
in  piteous  appeal  on  hers,  she  could  not  leave  him.  "  I  never 
hearn  that  'bout  ye,"  she  said,  reflectively.  "  I  knows  ye  hed 
awful  troubles  while  ye  war  alive,  but  I  never  knowed  ez  ye 
war  starved." 


MARY   NOAILLES    MURFREE  337 

Surely  that  was  a  gleam  of  sharp  surprise  in  the  ghost's 
prominent  eyes,  succeeded  by  a  sly  intelligence. 

"  Day  is  nigh  ter  breakin',"  Clarsie  admonished  him,  as  the 
lower  rim  of  the  moon  touched  the  silver  mists  of  the  west. 
"  What  air  ye  a-wantin'  of  me  ?  "  .  .  . 

"  Ye  do  ez  ye  air  bid,  or  it  '11  be  the  worse  for  ye,"  said  the 
"harnt,"  in  the  same  quivering,  shrill  tone.  "Thar's  hunger  in 
the  nex'  woiT  ez  well  ez  in  this,  an'  ye  bring  me  some  vittles 
hyar  this  time  ter-morrer,  an'  don't  ye  tell  nobody  ye  hev  seen 
me,  nuther,  or  it  '11  be  the  worse  for  ye." 

There  was  a  threat  in  his  eyes  as  he  disappeared  in  the 
laurel,  and  left  the  girl  standing  in  the  last  rays  of  moonlight.  .  .  . 

The  next  morning,  before  the  moon  sank,  Clarsie,  with  a  tin 
pail  in  her  hand,  went  to  meet  the  ghost  at  the  appointed  place. 
She  understood  now  why  the  terrible  doom  that  falls  upon 
those  to  whom  a  spirit  may  chance  to  speak  had  not  descended 
upon  her,  and  that  fear  was  gone ;  but  the  secrecy  of  her 
errand  weighed  heavily.  She  had  been  scrupulously  careful  to 
put  into  the  pail  only  such  things  as  had  fallen  to  her  share  at 
the  table,  and  which  she  had  saved  from  the  meals  of  yester 
day.  "  A  gal  that  goes  a-robbin'  fur  a  hongry  harnt,"  was  her 
moral  reflection,  "  oughter  be  throwed  bodaciously  off 'n  the 
bluff." 

She  found  no  one  at  the  forks  of  the  road.  In  the  marshy 
dip  were  only  the  myriads  of  mountain  azaleas,  only  the  masses 
of  feathery  ferns,  only  the  constellated  glories  of  the  laurel 
blooms.  A  sea  of  shining  white  mist  was  in  the  valley,  with 
glinting  golden  rays  striking  athwart  it  from  the  great  cresset 
of  the  sinking  moon ;  here  and  there  the  long,  dark,  horizontal 
line  of  a  distant  mountain's  summit  rose  above  the  vaporous 
shimmer,  like  a  dreary,  somber  island  in  the  midst  of  enchanted 
waters.  Her  large,  dreamy  eyes,  so  wild  and  yet  so  gentle, 
gazed  out  through  the  laurel  leaves  upon  the  floating  gilded 


338     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

flakes  of  light,  as  in  the  deep  coverts  of  the  mountain,  where 
the  fulvous-tinted  deer  were  lying,  other  eyes,  as  wild  and  as 
gentle,  dreamily  watched  the  vanishing  moon.  Overhead,  the 
filmy,  lacelike  clouds,  fretting  the  blue  heavens,  were  tinged 
with  a  faint  rose.  Through  the  trees  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  red  sky  of  dawn,  and  the  glister  of  a  great  lucent,  trem 
ulous  star.  From  the  ground,  misty  blue  exhalations  were 
rising,  alternating  with  the  long  lines  of  golden  light  yet  drift 
ing  through  the  woods.  It  was  all  very  still,  very  peaceful, 
almost  holy.  One  could  hardly  believe  that  these  consecrated 
solitudes  had  once  reverberated  with  the  echoes  of  man's  death- 
dealing  ingenuity,  and  that  Reuben  Crabb  had  fallen,  shot 
through  and  through,  amid  that  wealth  of  flowers  at  the  forks 
of  the  road.  She  heard  suddenly  the  far-away  baying  of  a 
hound.  Her  great  eyes  dilated,  and  she  lifted  her  head  to 
listen.  Only  the  solemn  silence  of  the  woods,  the  slow  sinking 
of  the  noiseless  moon,  the  voiceless  splendor  of  that  eloquent 
day-star. 

Morning  was  close  at  hand,  and  she  was  beginning  to  wonder 
that  the  ghost  did  not  appear,  when  the  leaves  fell  into  abrupt 
commotion,  and  he  was  standing  in  the  road,  beside  her.  He 
did  not  speak,  but  watched  her  with  an  eager,  questioning 
intentness,  as  she  placed  the  contents  of  the  pail  upon  the 
moss  at  the  roadside.  "  I'm  a-comin'  agin  ter-morrer,"  she 
said  gently.  He  made  no  reply,  quickly  gathered  the  food 
from  the  ground,  and  disappeared  in  the  deep  shades  of  the 
woods. 

She  had  not  expected  thanks,  for  she  was  accustomed  only 
to  the  gratitude  of  dumb  beasts  ;  but  she  was  vaguely  conscious 
of  something  wanting,  as  she  stood  motionless  for  a  moment, 
and  watched  the  burnished  rim  of  the  moon  slip  down  behind 
the  western  mountains.  Then  she  slowly  walked  along  her 
misty  way  in  the  dim  light  of  the  coming  dawn.  There  was 


MARY   XOAILLES   ML'RFREE  339 

a  footstep  in  the  road  behind  her ;  she  thought  it  was  the 
ghost  once  more.  She  turned,  and  met  Simon  Burney,  face  to 
face.  His  rod  was  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  string  of  fish  was  in 
his  hand. 

"  Ye  air  a-doin'  wrongful,  Clarsie,"  he  said  sternly.  "  It  air 
agin  the  law  fur  folks  ter  feed  an'  shelter  them  ez  is  a-runnin' 
from  jestice.  An'  ye  ?11  git  yerself  inter  trouble.  Other  folks 
will  find  ye  out,  besides  me,  an'  then  the  sheriff  '11  be  up  hyar 
arter  ye." 

The  tears  rose  to  Clarsie's  eyes.  This  prospect  was  infinitely 
more  terrifying  than  the  awful  doom  which  follows  the  horror 
of  a  ghost's  speech. 

"  I  can't  holp  it,"  she  said,  however,  doggedly  swinging  the 
pail  back  and  forth.  "  I  can't  gin  my  consent  ter  starvin'  of 
folks,  even  ef  they  air  a-hidin'  an'  a-runnin'  from  jestice."  .  .  . 

He  left  her  walking  on  toward  the  rising  sun,  and  retraced 
his  way  to  the  forks  of  the  road.  The  jubilant  morning  was 
filled  with  the  song  of  birds ;  the  sunlight  flashed  on  the  dew ; 
all  the  delicate  enameled  bells  of  the  pink  and  white  azaleas 
were  swinging  tremulously  in  the  wind ;  the  aroma  of  ferns 
and  mint  rose  on  the  delicious  fresh  air.  Presently  he  checked 
his  pace,  creeping  stealthily  on  the  moss  and  grass  beside  the 
road  rather  than  in  the  beaten  path.  He  pulled  aside  the  leaves 
of  the  laurel  with  no  more  stir  than  the  wind  might  have  made, 
and  stole  cautiously  through  its  dense  growth,  till  he  came  sud 
denly  upon  the  puny  little  ghost,"  lying  in  the  sun  at  the  foot  of 
a  tree.  The  frightened  creature  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  wild 
cry  of  terror,  but  before  he  could  move  a  step  he  was  caught 
and  held  fast  in  the  strong  grip  of  the  stalwart  mountaineer 
beside  him.  "  I  hev  kem  hyar  ter  tell  ye  a  word,  Reuben 
Crabb,"  said  Simon  Burney.  "  I  hev  kem  hyar  ter  tell  ye  that 
the  whole  mounting  air  a-goin'  ter  turn  out  ter  sarch  fur  ye ; 
the  sheriff  air  a-ridin'  now,  an'  ef  ye  don't  come  along  with  me 


340     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

they  '11  hev  ye  afore  night,  'kase  thai  air  two  hunderd  dollars 
reward  fur  ye." 

What  a  piteous  wail  went  up  to  the  smiling  blue  sky,  seen 
through  the  dappling  leaves  above  them !  What  a  horror,  and 
despair,  and  prescient  agony  were  in  the  hunted  creature's 
face  !  The  ghost  struggled  no  longer ;  he  slipped  from  his  feet 
down  upon  the  roots  of  the  tree,  and  turned  that  woful  face, 
with  its  starting  eyes  and  drawn  muscles  and  quivering  parted 
lips,  up  toward  the  unseeing  sky. 

"  God  A'mighty,  man  !  "  exclaimed  Simon  Burney,  moved  to 
pity.  "  Why  n't  ye  quit  this  hyar  way  of  livin'  in  the  woods  like 
ye  war  a  wolf  ?  Why  n't  ye  come  back  an'  stand  yer  trial  ? 
From  all  I  've  hearn  tell,  it  'pears  ter  me  ez  the  jury  air 
obleeged  ter  let  ye  off,  an'  I  '11  take  keer  of  ye  agin  them 
Grims." 

"  I  hain't  got  no  place  ter  live  in,"  cried  out  the  ghost,  with 
a  keen  despair. 

Simon  Burney  hesitated.  Reuben  Crabb  was  possibly  a 
murderer,  —  at  the  best  could  but  be  a  burden.  The  burden, 
however,  had  fallen  in  his  way,  and  he  lifted  it. 

"  I  tell  ye  now,  Reuben  Crabb,"  he  said,  "  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter 
holp  no  man  ter  break  the  law  an'  hender  jestice ;  but  ef  ye 
will  go  an'  stand  yer  trial,  I  '11  take  keer  of  ye  agin  them  Grims 
ez  long  ez  I  kin  fire  a  rifle.  An'  arter  the  jury  hev  done  let  ye 
off,  ye  air  welcome  ter  live  along  o'  me  at  my  house  till  ye  die. 
Ye  air  no  'count  ter  work,  I  know,  but  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  grudge 
ye  fur  a  livin'  at  my  house." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  the  reward  set  upon  the  head  of 
the  harnt  that  walked  Chilhowee  was  never  claimed. 

With  his  powerful  ally,  the  forlorn  little  specter  went  to  stand 
his  trial,  and  the  jury  acquitted  him  without  leaving  the  box. 
Then  he  came  back  to  the  mountains  to  live  with  Simon  Bur 
ney.  The  cruel  gibes  of  his  biyly  mockers  that  had  beset  his 


MARY   NOAILLES   MURFREE  341 

feeble  life  from  his  childhood  up,  the  deprivation  and  loneliness 
and  despair  and  fear  that  had  filled  those  days  when  he  walked 
Chilhowee,  had  not  improved  the  harnt's  temper.  He  was  a 
helpless  creature,  not  able  to  carry  a  gun  or  hold  a  plow,  and 
the  years  that  he  spent  smoking  his  cob  pipe  in  Simon  Burney's 
door  were  idle  years  and  unhappy.  But  Mrs.  Giles  said  she 
thought  he  was  "  a  mighty  lucky  little  critter :  fust,  he  hed  Joel 
ter  take  keer  of  him  an'  feed  him,  when  he  tuk  ter  the  woods 
ter  pertend  he  war  a  harnt ;  an'  they  do  say  now  that  Clarsie 
Pratt,  afore  she  war  married,  used  ter  kerry  him  vittles,  too ; 
an'  then  old  Simon  Burney  tuk  him  up  an'  fed  him  ez  plenty 
ez  ef  he  war  a  good  workin'  hand,  an'  gin  him  clothes  an' 
house-room,  an'  put  up  with  his  jawin'  jes'  like  he  never 
hearn  a  word  of  it.  But  law !  some  folks  dunno  when  they 
air  well  off." 

There  was  only  a  sluggish  current  of  peasant  blood  in  Simon 
Burney's  veins,  but  a  prince  could  not  have  dispensed  hospitality  \ 
with  a  more  royal  hand.     Ungrudgingly  he  gave  of  his  best ;  / 
valiantly  he  defended  his  thankless  guest  at  the  risk  of  his  life ; 
with  a  moral  gallantry  he  struggled  with  his  sloth,  and  worked 
early  and  late,  that  there  might  be  enough  to  divide.    There 
was  no  possibility  of  a  recompense  for  him,  not  even  in  the 
encomiums  of  discriminating  friends,  nor  the   satisfaction  of 
tutored  feelings  and  a  practiced  spiritual  discernment ;  for  he 
was  an  uncouth  creature,  and  densely  ignorant. 

The  grace  of  culture  is,  in  its  way,  a  fine  thing,  but  the  best 
that  art  can  do  —  the  polish  of  a  gentleman  —  is  hardly  equal 
to  the  best  that  Nature  can  do  in  her  higher  moods. 


342     SOUTHERN   LIFE   IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 


THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE 

[Thomas  Nelson  Page  was  born  in  Hanover  County,  Virginia,  in 
1 853.  He  was  educated  at  Washington  and  Lee  University.  He  then 

studied  law  at  the  University  of 
Virginia,  and  between  1875  and 
1 893  he  practiced  his  profession 
in  Richmond.  Since  1893  Mr. 
Page  has  lived  in  Washington 
and  has  given  himself  entirely 
to  literary  work.  Like  other 
Southern  writers  of  his  time  he 
began  his  literary  career  by  writ 
ing  stories  and  sketches  for  the 
newspapers  and  magazines.  His 
first  stories  were  collected  in  1 887 
and  published  under  the  title 
"  In  Ole  Virginia."  His  later 
writings  have  included,  in  addi 
tion  to  several  volumes  of  short 
stories,  novels  and  collections  of 
essays.  Since  1 893  Mr.  Page  has 
lived  in  Washington  and  given  himself  entirely  to  literary  work.  In 
1913  he  was  appointed  by  President  Wilson  Ambassador  to  Italy.] 

MARSE  CHAN  (SUMMARY)1 

The  narrator  is  an  old  darky,  who  is  pictured  in  the  begin 
ning  of  the  story  as  standing  with  a  hoe  and  a  watering  pot 
in  his  hand,  waiting  at  the  "worm-fence"  for  the  advent  down 
the  path  of  a  noble-looking  old  setter,  gray  with  age  and  over- 
round  from  too  abundant  feeding.  The  setter,  like  some  old- 
time  planter,  sauntered  slowly,  and  in  lordly  oblivion  of  the 
negro,  up  to  the  fence,  while  the  latter  began  to  take  down  the 
rails,  talking  meanwhile  to  the  dog  in  a  pretended  tone  of 

1  This  summary,  giving  a  good  idea  of  the  story  "  Marse  Chan,"  is  reprinted 
with  some  adaptations  from  H.  E.  Fiske's  "  Provincial  Types  in  American  Fiction." 


THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE 


THOMAS    NELSON    PAGE  343 

criticism  :  "  Now.  I  got  to  pull  down  de  gap,  I  suppose  !  Yo'  so 
sp'ilt  yo'  kyahn  hardly  walk.  Jes'  ez  able  to  git  over  it  as  I  is ! 
Jes'  like  white  folks  —  think  'cuz  you's  white  and  I's  black,  I 
got  to  wait  on  yo'  all  de  time.  Xe'm  mine,  I  ain'  gwi'  do  it!" 
As  his  dogship  marched  sedately  through  the  "gap"  and  down 
the  road,  the  negro  suddenly  discovered  a  stranger  looking  on, 
and  hastened  to  remark  somewhat  apologetically:  "He  know  I 
don'  mean  nothin'  by  what  I  sez.  He  's  Marse  Chan's  dawg, 
an'  he 's  so  ole  he  kyahn  git  long  no  pearter.  He  know  I  'se 
jes'  prodjickin'  wid  'im." 

The  darky  explained  to  the  stranger  that  "  Marse  Chan " 
(or  Channin')  was  his  young  master,  that  the  place  with  "de 
rock  gate-pos's  "  which  the  stranger  had  just  passed  was  "  ole 
Cun'l  Chamb'lin's,"  and  that  since  the  war  "  our  place  "  had 
been  acquired  by  certain  "unknowns"  who  were  probably  "half- 
strainers." 

At  the  request  of  the  stranger  to  tell  him  all  about  "Marse 
Chan"  the  old  negro  recalled,  "jes'  like  't  wuz  yistiddy,"  how 
"ole  marster"  (Marse  Chan's  father),  smiling  "  wus  'n  a  'pos 
sum,"  came  out  on  the  porch  with  his  new-born  son  in  his 
arms,  and  catching  sight  of  Sam  (the  narrator,  who  was  then 
but  eight  years  old),  called  him  up  on  the  porch  and  put  the 
baby  in  his  arms,  with  the  solemn  injunction  that  Sam  was  to 
be  the  young  master's  body  servant  as  long  as  he  lived.  "  Yo' 
jes'  ought  to  a-heard  de  folks  sayin',  'Lawd  !  marster,  dat  boy '11 
drap  dat  chile  ! '  '  Naw,  he  won't,'  sez  marster ;  '  I  kin  trust 
'im.' "  And  then  the  old  master  walked  after  Sam  carrying  the 
young  master,  until  Sam  entered  the  house  and  laid  his  precious 
burden  on  the  bed. 

Sam  recalled,  too,  how  Marse  Chan,  when  in  school,  once 
carried  Miss  Anne,  Colonel  Chamberlin's  little  daughter,  on  his 
shoulders  across  a  swollen  creek,  and  how  the  next  day,  when 
his  father  gave  him  a  pony  to  show  his  pleasure  over  his  son's 


344     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

chivalry,  Marse  Chan  came  walking  home  from  school,  having 
given  his  pony  to  Miss  Anne.  "  'Yes,'  sez  ole  marster,  laughin', 
*  I  s'pose  you 's  already  done  giv'  her  yo'se'f ,  an'  nex'  thing  I 
know  you'll  be  givin'  her  this  plantation  and  all  my  niggers.'" 
It  was  only  a  fortnight  later  that  Colonel  Chamberlin  invited 
the  "  ole  marster  "  and  his  whole  family  over  to  dinner,  —  ex 
pressly  naming  Marse  Chan  in  the  note,  —  and  after  dinner 
two  ponies  stood  at  the  door,  the  one  Marse  Chan  had  given 
Miss  Anne,  and  the  other  a  present  to  Marse  Chan  from  the 
Colonel.  And  after  a  "  gre't "  speech  by  the  Colonel,  the  two 
young  lovers  went  off  to  ride,  while  the  "grown  folks"  laughed 
and  chatted  and  smoked  their  cigars. 

To  the  eye  of  Sam's  endearing  memory  those  were  the  good 
old  times,  —  "  de  bes'  Sam  ever  see  !  Dey  wuz,  in  fac'!  Niggers 
did  n'  hed  nothin'  't  all  to  do  —  jes'  hed  to  'ten'  to  de  feedin'  an' 
cleanin'  de  horses,  an'  doin'  what  de  marster  tell  'em  to  do ; 
an'  when  dey  wuz  sick,  dey  had  things  sont  'em  out  de  house, 
an'  de  same  doctor  come  to  see  'em  whar  'ten'  to  de  white 
folks  when  dey  wuz  po'ly.  Dyar  warn'  no  trouble  nor  nothin'." 

The  considerate  affection  shown  for  the  young  Sam  by 
Marse  Chan  was  illustrated  by  the  little  incident  of  the  punish 
ment  inflicted  on  both  of  them  by  the  "  ole  marster  "  for  sliding 
down  the  straw-stacks  against  orders.  The  master  first  whipped 
young  Marse  Chan  and  then  began  on  Sam,  who  was  using  his 
lungs  to  lighten  the  severity  of  his  punishment.  Marse  Chan 
took  his  own  whipping  without  a  murmur ;  "  but  soon  ez  he 
commence  warmin'  me  an'  I  begin  to  holler,  Marse  Chan  he 
bu'st  out  cryin',  an'  stept  right  in  befo'  old  marster,  an'  ketchin' 
de  whup,  sed  :  "  '  Stop,  seh !  Yo'  sha'n't  whup  'im  ;  he  b'longs 
to  me,  an'  ef  you  hit  'im  another  lick  I  '11  set  'im  free ! '  .  .  . 

"  Marse  Chan  he  war  n'  mo'  'n  eight  years  ole,  an'  dyah  dey 
wuz  —  ole  marster  standin'  wid  he  whup  raised  up,  an'  Marse 
Chan  red  an'  cryin',  hoPin'  on  to  it,  an'  sayin'  I  b'longs  to  'im. 


THOMAS   NELSON    PAGE  345 

"  Ole  marster,  he  raise'  de  whup,  an'  den  he  drapt  it,  an'  broke 
out  in  a  smile  over  he  face,  an'  he  chuck  Marse  Chan  onder  de 
chin,  an'  tu'n  right  roun'  an'  went  away,  laughin'  to  hisse'f ;  an' 
I  heah  'im  tellin'  ole  missis  dat  evenin',  an'  laughin'  'bout  it." 

Sam's  vivid  memory  saw  again  the  picture  of  the  dawn-light 
on  the  river  when  Marse  Chan  and  old  Colonel  Chamberlin 
fought  their  famous  duel  that  grew  out  of  the  unfounded  charges 
against  Marse  Chan's  father  made  by  the  Colonel  in  a  political 
speech.  Sam  could  see  again  the  early  morning  light  on  his 
young  master's  face,  and  could  hear  the  ominous  voice  of  one 
of  the  seconds  saying,  "  Gentlemen,  are  you  ready  ? " 

"  An'  he  sez,  f  Fire,  one,  two  '  —  an'  ez  he  said  '  one '  ole 
Cun'l  Chamb'lin  raised  he  pistil  an'  shot  right  at  Marse  Chan. 
De  ball  went  th'oo'  his  hat.  I  seen  he  hat  sort  o'  settle  on  he 
head  ez  de  bullit  hit  it,  an'  he  jes'  tilted  his  pistil  up  in  de  a'r  an' 
shot  —  bang;  an'  ez  de  pistil  went  bang,  he  sez  to  Cun'l  Cham 
b'lin,  *  I  mek  you  a  present  to  yo'  fam'ly,  seh ! '  .  .  . 

"  But  ole  Cun'l  Chamb'lin  he  nuver  did  furgive  Marse 
Chan,  an'  Miss  Anne  she  got  mad  too.  Wimmens  is  mons'us 
onreasonable  nohow.  Dey  's  jes'  like  a  catfish  :  you  can  n'  tek 
hole  on  'em  like  udder  folks,  an'  when  you  gits  'm  yo'  can  n' 
always  hole  'em." 

In  sympathetic  and  picturesque  language  the  old  darky 
recounted  the  last  meeting  between  Marse  Chan  and  Miss 
Anne,  as  they  stood  together  in  the  moonlight,  and  Sam  over 
heard  the  fateful  words  of  the  implacable  Southern  woman, 
"  *  But  I  don'  love  yo'.'  (Jes'  dem  th'ee  wuds !)  De  wuds  fall 
right  slow  —  like  dirt  falls  out  a  spade  on  a  coffin  when  yo  's 
buryin'  anybody,  an'  seys, '  Uth  to  uth.'  Marse  Chan  he  jes'  let 
her  hand  drap,  an'  he  stiddy  hisse'f  'g'inst  de  gate-pos',  an'  he 
did  n'  speak  torekly." 

Sam's  account  of  how  Marse  Chan  went  to  the  war,  of 
how  in  the  tent  he  knocked  down  Mr.  Ronny  for  speaking 


346     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

contemptuously  of  Colonel  Chamberlin  and  his  daughter,  and 
of  the  effect  on  Marse  Chan's  face  of  the  letter  of  reconciliation 
and  love  he  received  from  Miss  Anne,  —  brings  the  vivid  narra 
tive  to  Marse  Chan's  splendid  charge  on  the  field  at  the  head  of 
the  regiment,  carrying  its  fallen  flag  up  the  hill,  and  inspiring 
it  by  his  dauntless  leadership.  "  I  seen  'im  when  he  went,  de 
sorrel  four  good  lengths  ahead  o'  ev'ry  urr  hoss,  jes'  like  he 
use'  to  be  in  a  fox-hunt,  an'  de  whole  rigimint  right  arfter  him." 
But  suddenly  the  sorrel  came  galloping  back,  the  rein  hanging 
down  on  one  side  to  his  knee,  —  and  poor  Sam  knew  that 
Marse  Chan  was  killed.  He  found  his  master  among  the  dead, 
still  holding  in  his  hand  the  flag.  "  I  tu'n  'im  over  an'  call 
'im,  '  Marse  Chan  ! '  but 't  wan'  no  use,  he  wuz  done  gone  home, 
sho'  'nuff.  I  pick'  'im  up  in  my  arms  wid  de  fleg  still  in  he 
han's,  an'  toted  'im  back  jes'  like  I  did  dat  day  when  he  wuz 
a  baby,  an'  ole  marster  gin  'im  to  me  in  my  arms,  an'  sez  he 
could  trus'  me,  an'  tell  me  to  tek  keer  on  'im  long  ez  he  lived." 

And  when  Sam  reached  home  with  the  body  in  the  ambu 
lance  and  had  gone  over  to  let  Miss  Anne  know  the  awful 
news  that  "  Marse  Chan  he  done  got  he  furlough,"  and  she 
had  ridden  back  and  prostrated  herself  before  Marse  Chan's 
old  mother,  there  is  the  close  of  the  tragic  story  as  told  by  the 
old  negro  in  these  words  : 

"  Ole  missis  stood  for  'bout  a  minit  lookin'  down  at  her,  an'  den 
she  drapt  down  on  de  flo'  by  her,  an'  took  her  in  bofe  her  arms. 

"  I  could  n'  see,  I  wuz  cryin'  so  myse'f,  an'  ev'ybody  wuz  cryin'. 
But  dey  went  in  arfter  a  while  in  de  parlor,  an'  shet  de  do' ;  an' 
I  heahd  'em  say,  Miss  Anne  she  tuk  de  coffin  in  her  arms  an' 
kissed  it,  an'  kissed  Marse  Chan,  an'  call  'im  by  his  name,  an' 
her  darlin',  an'  ole  missis  lef  her  cryin'  in  dyar  tell  some  one  on 
'em  went  in,  an'  found  her  done  faint  on  de  flo'."  And  it  was  not 
long  before  Miss  Anne,  broken  by  nursing  in  the  hospitals  and 
by  fever  and  sorrow,  was  laid  beside  the  body  of  Marse  Chan. 


THOMAS   NELSON   PAGE  .         347 

THE  TRAINING  OF  THE  OLD  VIRGINIA  LAWYER 

His  training  was  not  always  that  of  the  modern  law-class ; 
but  it  was  more  than  a  substitute  for  it ;  and  it  was  of  its  own 
kind  complete.  He  "  read  law  under  "  some  old  lawyer,  some 
friend  of  his  father  or  himself,  who,  although  not  a  professor, 
was,  without  professing  it,  an  admirable  teacher.  He  associated 
with  him  constantly,  in  season  and  out  of  season ;  he  saw  him  in 
his  every  mood  ;  he  observed  him  in  intercourse  with  his  clients, 
with  his  brothers  of  the  bar,  with  the  outside  world  ;  he  heard  him 
discourse  of  law,  of  history,  of  literature,  of  religion,  of  philoso 
phy  ;  he  learned  from  him  to  ponder  every  manifestation  of 
humanity  ;  to  consider  the  great  underlying  principles  into  which 
every  proposition  was  resolvable ;  he  found  in  him  an  exemplifi 
cation  of  much  that  he  inculcated,  and  a  frank  avowal  of  that 
wherein  he  failed.  He  learned  to  accept  Lord  Coke's  dictum, 
"  melior  est  peter e  fontes  quam  sectari  rivulos"  —  to  look  to  the 
sources  rather  than  to  tap  the  streams ;  he  fed  upon  the  strong 
meat  of  the  institutes  and  the  commentaries  with  the  great  leading 
cases  which  stand  now  as  principles ;  he  received  by  absorption 
the  traditions  of  the  profession.  On  these,  like  a  healthy  child, 
he  grew  strong  without  taking  note.  Thus  in  due  time  when  his 
work  came  he  \vas  fully  equipped.  His  old  tutor  had  not  only 
taught  him  law ;  he  had  taught  him  that  the  law  was  a  science, 
and  a  great,  if  not  the  greatest,  science.  He  had  impressed  him 
with  the  principles  which  he  himself  held,  and  they  were  sound  ; 
he  had  stamped  upon  his  mind  the  conviction,  that  he,  his  tutor, 
was  the  greatest  lawyer  of  his  time,  a  conviction  which  no 
subsequent  observation  or  experience  ever  served  to  remove. 

He  had  made  his  mark,  perhaps  unexpectedly,  in  some  case 
in  which  the  force  of  his  maturing  intellect  had  suddenly  burst 
forth,  astonishing  alike  the  bar  and  the  bench  and  enrapturing 
the  public.  Perhaps  it  was  a  criminal  case ;  perhaps  one  in 


348     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

which  equity  might  be  on  his  side,  with  the  law  dead  against 
him ;  and  which  was  regarded  by  older  men  with  the  conserva 
tism  of  age  as  impossible  until,  by  his  brilliant  effort,  he  unex 
pectedly  won  it.  As  like  as  not  he  rode  forty  miles  that  night 
to  give  a  flower  to  his  sweetheart. 

From  this  time  his  reputation,  his  influence,  and  his  practice 
increased.  His  professional  position  was  henceforth  assured. 
He  had  risen  from  a  tyro  to  be  an  old  lawyer. 

JAMES   LANE  ALLEN 

[James  Lane  Allen  was  born  near  Lexington,  Kentucky,  in  1 849. 
He  attended  Transylvania  University,  and  after  teaching  school  for 
several  years  he  accepted  the  chair  of  Latin  and  higher  English  in 
Bethany  College,  West  Virginia.  After  two  years  he  resigned  this 
position  and  has  since  devoted  himself  to  literature,  residing  the 
greater  part  of  the  time  in  New  York  City.  His  earlier  sketches 
of  Kentucky  life  were  published  in  1891  under  the  title  "Flute 
and  Violin."  This  was  followed  by  the  short  novels  "  A  Kentucky 
Cardinal,"  and  its  sequel  "  Aftermath,"  and  "  A  Summer  in  Arcady." 
With  "  The  Choir  Invisible  "  Mr.  Allen  began  to  work  in  the  longer 
form  of  fiction,  the  novel,  which  has  since  chiefly  occupied  his  time.] 

TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY1 

[Under  the  new  conditions  resulting  from  the  Civil  War  and 
his  altered  fortunes,  Colonel  Romulus  Fields,  representing 
"  thft^flpwpE- p£  that  social  order  which  had  bloomed  in  rank 
perfection  over  the  blue-grass  plains  of  Kentucky  during  the 
final  decades  of  the  old  re'gime."  determined  to  sell  his  place 
and  move  to  town.  Of  the  Colonel's  former  slaves,  one 
remained  inseparable  from  his  person.  This  was  "  an  old  gen 
tleman —  for  such  he  was  —  named  Peter  Cotton."  "  In  early 

1  These  extracts  from  the  story  entitled  "  Two  Gentlemen  of  Kentucky  "  are 
reprinted  from  "  Flute  and  Violin  "  by  special  arrangement  with  the  publishers 
of  Mr.  Allen's  works,  the  Macmillan  Company. 


JAMES   LANE  ALLEN 


349 


manhood  Peter  had  been  a  woodchopper ;  but  he  had  one 
day  had  his  leg  broken  by  the  limb  of  a  falling  tree,  and  after 
wards,  out  of  consideration  for  his  limp,  had  been  made  super 
visor  of  the  woodpile,  gardener,  and  a  sort  of  nondescript  servitor 
of  his  master's  luxurious  needs.  Xay,  in  larger  and  deeper 
characters  must  his  history  be  writ,  he  having  been,  in  days 
gone  by,  one  of  those  ministers 
of  the  gospel  whom  conscien 
tious  Kentucky  masters  often 
urged  to  the  exercise  of  spiritual 
functions  in  behalf  of  their  be 
nighted  people/'] 


JAMES  LANK  ALLEN 


About  two  years  after  the 
close  of  the  war,  therefore,  the 
colonel  and  Peter  were  to  be 
found  in  the  city,  ready  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf  in  the  volumes 
of  their  lives,  which  already 
had  an  old-fashioned  binding,  a 
somewhat  musty  odor,  and  but 
few  written  leaves  remaining. 

After  a  long,  dry  summer 
you  may  have  seen  two  gnarled  old  apple  trees,  that  stood  with 
interlocked  arms  on  the  western  slope  of  some  quiet  hillside, 
make  a  melancholy  show  of  blooming  out  again  in  the  autumn 
of  the  year  and  dallying  with  the  idle  buds  that  mock  their 
sapless  branches.  Much  the  same  was  the  belated,  fruitless 
efflorescence  of  the  colonel  and  Peter. 

The  colonel  had  no  business  habits,  no  political  ambition,  no 
wish  to  grow  richer.  He  was  too  old  for  society,  and  without 
near  family  ties.  For  some  time  he  wandered  through  the 
streets  like  one  lost, —  sick  \vith  yearning  for  the  fields  and 


350     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

woods,  for  his  cattle,  for  familiar  faces.  He  haunted  Cheapside 
and  the  courthouse  square,  where  the  farmers  always  assembled 
when  they  came  to  town ;  and  if  his  eye  lighted  on  one,  he 
would  buttonhole  him  on  the  street  corner  and  lead  him  into  a 
grocery  and  sit  down  for  a  quiet  chat.  Sometimes  he  would 
meet  an  aimless,  melancholy  wanderer  like  himself,  and  the  two 
would  go  off  and  discuss  over  and  over  again  their  departed 
days  ;  and  several  times  he  came  unexpectedly  upon  some  of 
his  old  servants  who  had  fallen  into  bitter  want,  and  who  more 
than  repaid  him  for  the  help  he  gave  by  contrasting  the  hard 
ships  of  a  life  of  freedom  with  the  ease  of  their  shackled  years. 

In  the  course  of  time,  he  could  but  observe  that  human  life 
in  the  town  was  reshaping  itself  slowly  and  painfully,  but  with 
resolute  energy.  The  colossal  structure  of  slavery  had  fallen, 
scattering  its  ruins  far  and  wide  over  the  state ;  but  out  of  the 
very  debris  was  being  taken  the  material  to  lay  the  deeper 
foundations  of  the  new  social  edifice.  Men  and  women  as  old 
as  he  were  beginning  life  over  and  trying  to  fit  themselves  for 
it  by  changing  the  whole  attitude  and  habit  of  their  minds,  — 
by  taking  on  a  new  heart  and  spirit.  But  when  a  great  building 
falls,  there  is  always  some  rubbish,  and  the  colonel  and  others 
like  him  were  part  of  this.  Henceforth  they  possessed  only 
an  antiquarian  sort  of  interest,  like  the  stamped  bricks  of 
Nebuchadnezzar. 

Nevertheless  he  made  a  show  of  doing  something,  and  in  a 
year  or  two  opened  on  Cheapside  a  store  for  the  sale  of  hard 
ware  and  agricultural  implements.  He  knew  more  about  the 
latter  than  anything  else;  and,  furthermore,  he  secretly  felt 
that  a  business  of  this  kind  would  enable  him  to  establish  in 
town  a  kind  of  headquarters  for  the  farmers.  His  account 
books  were  to  be  kept  on  a  system  of  twelve  months'  credit ; 
and  he  mentally  resolved  that  if  one  of  his  customers  could  n't 
pay  then,  he  should  have  another  year's  time. 


JAMES    LANE  ALLEN  351 

Business  began  slowly.  The  farmers  dropped  in  and  found 
a  good  lounging  place.  On  county-court  days,  which  were  great 
market  days  for  the  sale  of  sheep,  horses,  mules,  and  cattle  in 
front  of  the  colonel's  door,  they  swarmed  in  from  the  hot  sun 
and  sat  around  on  the  counter  and  the  plows  and  machines  till 
the  entrance  was  blocked  to  other  customers.  When  a  cus 
tomer  did  come  in,  the  colonel,  who  was  probably  talking  with 
some  old  acquaintance,  would  tell  him  just  to  look  around  and 
pick  out  what  he  wanted  and  the  price  would  be  all  right.  If 
one  of  those  acquaintances  asked  for  a  pound  of  nails,  the 
colonel  would  scoop  up  some  ten  pounds  and  say,  "  I  reckon 
that 's  about  a  pound,  Tom."  He  had  never  seen  a  pound  of 
nails  in  his  life ;  and  if  one  had  been  weighed  on  his  scales,  he 
would  have  said  the  scales  were  wrong.  He  had  no  great  idea 
of  commercial  dispatch.  One  morning  a  lady  came  in  for  some 
carpet  tacks,  an  article  that  he  had  overlooked.  But  he  at  once 
sent  off  an  order  for  enough  to  have  tacked  a  carpet  pretty 
well  all  over  Kentucky ;  and  when  they  came,  two  weeks  later, 
he  told  Peter  to  take  her  up  a  double  handful  with  his  compli 
ments.  He  had  laid  in,  however,  an  ample  and  especially  fine 
assortment  of  pocket-knives,  for  that  instrument  had  always 
been  to  him  one  of  gracious  and  very  winning  qualities.  Then 
when  a  friend  dropped  in  he  would  say,  "  General,  don't  you 
need  a  new  pocket-knife  ? "  and,  taking  out  one,  would  open 
all  the  blades  and  commend  the  metal  and  the  handle.  The 
"  general "  would  inquire  the  price,  and  the  colonel,  having 
shut  the  blades,  would  hand  it  to  him,  saying  in  a  careless, 
fond  way,  "  I  reckon  I  won't  charge  you  anything  for  that." 
HisjmneUnnlH  nnt  nnmo  rlnwn  to  Hie  km  level  of  suck-ignoble 
barter,  and  he  gave  awav  fhf  "-hnlp  ™<if>  of  knives. 

These  were  the  pleasanter  aspects  of  his  business  life,  which 
did  not  lack  as  well  its  tedium  and  crosses.  Thus  there  were 
many  dark  stormy  days  when  no  one  he  cared  to  see  came 


352     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

in ;  and  he  then  became  rather  a  pathetic  figure,  wandering 
absently  around  amidst  the  symbols  of  his  past  activity,  and 
stroking  the  plows,  like  dumb  companions.  Or  he  would  stand 
at  the  door  and  look  across  at  the  old  courthouse,  where  he 
had  seen  many  a  slave  sold  and  had  listened  to  the  great 
Kentucky  orators.  Once,  too,  while  he  was  deep  in  conver 
sation,  a  brisk  young  farmer  drove  up  to  the  door  in  a  sulky 
and  called  in  pretty  sharply  that  he  wanted  him  to  go  out  and 
set  up  a  machine.  The  colonel's  mind  just  then  was  busy  with 
certain  scenes  of  great  power  in  his  own  past  life,  and  had 
swelled  to  the  old  heroic  proportions ;  wherefore,  burning  over 
the  indignity,  he  seized  an  ax  handle  and  started  out  in  a 
manner  that  led  the  young  man  to  drive  quickly  away. 

But  what  hurt  him  most  was  the  talk  of  the  newer  farming 
and  the  abuse  of  the  old  which  he  was  forced  to  hear ;  and  he 
generally  refused  to  handle  the  improved  implements  and 
mechanical  devices  by  which  labor  and  waste  were  to  be  saved. 

Altogether  he  grew  tired  of  "  the  thing,"  and  sold  out  at  the 
end  of  the  year  with  a  loss  of  over  a  thousand  dollars,  though 
he  insisted  he  had  done  a  good  business. 

As  he  was  then  seen  much  on  the  streets  again  and  several 
times  heard  to  make  remarks  in  regard  to  the  sidewalks, 
gutters,  and  crossings,  when  they  happened  to  be  in  bad  con 
dition,  the  Daily  Press  one  morning  published  a  card  stating 
that  if  Colonel  Romulus  Fields  would  consent  to  make  the 
race  for  mayor  he  would  receive  the  support  of  many  Demo 
crats,  adding  a  tribute  to  his  virtues  and  his  influential  past.  It 
touched  the  colonel,  and  he  walked  down  town  with  a  rather 
commanding  figure.  But  it  pained  him  to  see  how  many  of 
his  acquaintances  returned  his  salutations  very  coldly ;  and  just 
as  he  was  passing  the  Northern  Bank  he  met  the  young  oppo 
sition  candidate, —  a  little  red-haired  fellow,  walking  between 
two  ladies,  with  a  rosebud  in  his  buttonhole,  —  who  refused  to 


JAMES    LANE  ALLEN  353 

speak  at  all,  but  made  the  ladies  laugh  by  some  remark  he 
uttered  as  the  colonel  passed.  The  card  had  been  inserted 
humorously,  but  he  took  it  seriously ;  and  when  his  friends 
found  this  out,  they  rallied  round  him.  The  day  of  election 
drew  near.  They  told  him  he  would  have  to  buy  votes.  He 
said  he  would  n't  buy  a  vote  to  be  mayor  of  the  New  Jerusalem. 
They  told  him  he  must  "mix"  and  "treat."  He  refused. 
Foreseeing  he  had  no  chance,  they  besought  him  to  withdraw. 
He  said  he  would  not.  They  told  him  he  would  n't  poll  twenty 
votes.  He  replied  that  one  would  satisfy  him,  provided  it  was 
neither  begged  nor  bought.  When  his  defeat  was  announced 
he  accepted  it  as  another  evidence  that  he  had  no  part  in  the 
newer  day,  and  regretted  it  only  because  there  was  thus  lost  to 
him  another  chance  of  redeeming  his  idleness. 

A  sense  of  this  weighed  heavily  on  him  at  times;  but  it  is 
not  likely  that  he  realized  how  pitifully  he  was  undergoing  a 
moral  shrinkage  in  consequence  of  mere  disuse.  Actually,  ex 
tinction  had  set  in  with  him  long  prior  to  dissolution,  and  he 
was  dead  years  before  his  heart  ceased  beating.  The  very 
basic  virtues  on  which  had  rested  his  once  spacious  and 
stately  character  were  now  but  the  moldy  corner  stones  of  a 
crumbling  ruin. 

It  was  a  subtle  evidence  of  deterioration  in  manliness  that 
he  had  taken  to  dress.  When  he  had  lived  in  the  country,  he 
had  never  dressed  up  unless  he  came  to  town.  When  he  had 
moved  to  town,  he  thought  he  must  remain  dressed  up  all  the 
time;  and  this  fact  first  fixed  his  attention  on  a  matter  which 
afterwards  began  to  be  loved  for  its  own  sake.  L^sually  he 
wore  a  Derby  hat,  a  black  diagonal  coat,  gray  trousers,  and  a 
white  necktie.  But  the  article  of  attire  in  which  he  took  chief 
pleasure  was  hose ;  and  the  better  to  show  the  gay  colors  of 
these,  he  wore  low-cut  shoes  of  the  finest  calfskin,  turned  up 
at  the  toes.  Thus  his  feet  kept  pace  with  the  present,  however 


354     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

far  his  head  may  have  lagged  in  the  past ;  and  it  may  be  that 
this  stream  of  fresh  fashions,  flowing  perennially  over  his  lower 
extremities  like  water  about  the  roots  of  a  tree,  kept  him  from 
drying  up  altogether.  Peter  always  polished  his  shoes  with  too 
much  blacking,  perhaps  thinking  that  the  more  the  blacking  the 
greater  the  proof  of  love.  He  wore  his  clothes  about  a  season 
and  a  half  —  having  several  suits  —  and  then  passed  them  on 
to  Peter,  who,  foreseeing  the  joy  of  such  an  inheritance,  bought 
no  new  ones.  In  the  act  of  transferring  them  the  colonel  made 
no  comment  until  he  came  to  the  hose,  from  which  he  seemed 
unable  to  part  without  a  final  tribute  of  esteem,  as :  "  These 
are  fine,  Peter  " ;  or,  "  Peter,  these  are  nearly  as  good  as  new." 
Thus  Peter  too  was  dragged  through  the  whims  of  fashion.  To 
have  seen  the  colonel  walking  about  his  grounds  and  garden 
followed  by  Peter,  just  a  year  and  a  half  behind  in  dress  and  a 
yard  and  a  half  behind  in  space,  one  might  well  have  taken  the 
rear  figure  for  the  colonel's  double,  slightly  the  worse  for  wear^ 
somewhat  shrunken,  and  cast  into  a  heavy  shadow.  .  .  . 

Peter,  meantime,  had  been  finding  out  that  his  occupation  too 
was  gone. 

Soon  after  moving  to  town,  he  had  tendered  his  pastoral  serv 
ices  to  one  of  the  fashionable  churches  of  the  city,  —  not  be 
cause  it  was  fashionable,  but  because  it  was  made  up  of  his 
brethren.  In  reply  he  was  invited  to  preach  a  trial  sermon, 
which  he  did  with  gracious  unction.  It  was  a  strange  scene,  as 
one  calm  Sunday  morning  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  pulpit, 
dressed  in  a  suit  of  the  colonel's  old  clothes,  with  one  hand  in 
his  trousers  pocket,  and  his  lame  leg  set  a  little  forward  at  an 
angle  familiar  to  those  who  know  the  statues  of  Henry  Clay. 

How  self-possessed  he  seemed,  yet  with  what  a  rush  of  mem 
ories  did  he  pass  his  eyes  slowly  over  that  vast  assemblage  of 
his  emancipated  people.!  With  what  feelings  must  he  have 
contrasted  those  silk  hats,  and  walking  canes,  and  broadcloths ; 


JAMES   LANE  ALLEN  355 

those  gloves  and  satins,  laces  and  feathers,  jewelry  and  fans  — 
that  whole  many-colored  panorama  of  life  —  with  the  weary, 
sad,  and  sullen  audiences  that  had  often  heard  him  of  old  under 
the  forest  trees  or  by  the  banks  of  some  turbulent  stream ! 

In  a  voice  husky,  but  heard  beyond  the  flirtation  of  the  utter 
most  pewr,  he  took  his  text :  "  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field, 
how  they  grow ;  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin."  From 
this  he  tried  to  preach  a  new  sermon,  suited  to  the  newer  day. 
But  several  times  the  thoughts  of  the  past  were  too  much  for 
him,  and  he  broke  down  with  emotion.  The  next  day  a  grave 
committee  waited  on  him  and  reported  that  the  sense  of  the 
congregation  was  to  call  a  colored  gentleman  from  Louisville. 
Private  objections  to  Peter  were  that  he  had  a  broken  leg,  wore 
Colonel  Fields's  second-hand  clothes,  which  were  too  big  for 
him,  preached  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  and  lacked  self-control 
and  repose  of  manner. 

Peter  accepted  his  rebuff  as  sweetly  as  Socrates  might  have 
done.  Humming  the  burden  of  an  old  hymn,  he  took  his 
righteous  coat  from  a  nail  in  the  wall  and  folded  it  away  in  a 
little  brass-nailed  deerskin  trunk,  laying  over  it  the  spelling  book 
and  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  which  he  had  ceased  to  read.  Thence 
forth  his  relations  to  his  people  were  never  intimate,  and  even 
from  the  other  servants  of  the  coloneFs  household  he  stood  apart. 
In  paying  them,  the  colonel  would  sometimes  say,  "  Peter,  I 
reckon  I'd  better  begin  to  pay  you  a  salary ;  that 's  the  style 
now."  But  Peter  would  turn  off,  saying  he  did  n't  "  have  no 
use  fur  no  salary." 

Thus  both  of  them  dropped  more  and  more  out  of  life,  but 
as  they  did  so,  only  drew  more  and  more  closely  to  each  other. 
The  colonel  had  bought  a  home  on  the  edge  of  the  town,  with 
some  ten  acres  of  beautiful  ground  surrounding.  A  high  osage- 
orange  hedge  shut  it  in,  and  forest  trees,  chiefly  maples  and  elms, 
gave  to  the  lawn  and  house  abundant  shade.  Wild-grape  vines, 


356     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN   SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

the  Virginia  creeper,  and  the  climbing  oak  swung  their  long 
festoons  from  summit  to  summit,  while  honeysuckles,  clematis, 
and  the  Mexican  vine  clambered  over  arbors  and  trellises,  or 
along  the  chipped  stone  of  the  low,  old-fashioned  house.  Just  out 
side  the  door  of  the  colonel's  bedroom  slept  an  ancient  sundial. 

The  place  seemed  always  in  half-shadow,  with  hedgerows  of 
box,  clumps  of  dark  holly,  darker  firs  half  a  century  old,  and 
aged,  crapelike  cedars. 

It  was  in  the  seclusion  of  this  retreat,  which  looked  almost 
like  a  wild  bit  of  country  set  down  on  the  edge  of  the  town, 
that  the  colonel  and  Peter  spent  more  of  their  time  as  they  fell 
farther  in  the  rear  of  onward  events.  There  were  no  such 
flower  gardens  in  the  city,  and  pretty  much  the  whole  town  went 
thither  for  its  flowers,  preferring  them  to  those  that  were  to  be 
had  for  a  price  at  the  nurseries.  There  was  perhaps  a  sugges 
tion  of  pathetic  humor  in  the  fact  that  it  should  have  called  on 
the  colonel  and  Peter,  themselves  so  nearly  defunct,  to  give 
the  flowers  for  so  many  funerals  ;  but,  it  is  certain,  almost 
weekly  the  two  old  gentlemen  received  this  chastening  admo 
nition  of  their  all-but-spent  mortality.  The  colonel  cultivated 
the  rarest  fruits  also,  and  had  under  glass  varieties  that  were 
not  friendly  to  the  climate ;  so  that  by  means  of  the  fruits  and 
flowers  there  was  established  a  pleasant  social  bond  with  many 
who  otherwise  would  never  have  sought  them  out.  But  others 
came  for  better  reasons.  To  a  few  deep-seeing  eyes  the  colonel 
and  Peter  were  momentous  figures,  disappearing  types  of  a  once 
vast  social  system,  ruined  landmarks  on  a  fading  historic  land 
scape,  and  their  devoted  friendship  was  the  last  steady  burning- 
down  of  that  pure  flame  of  love  which  can  never  a^ain  shine 
out_jn  the  future  of  the  two  races.  Hence  a  softened  charm 
invested  the  drowsy  quietude  of  that  shadowy  paradise  in  which 
the  old  master  without  a  slave  and  the  old  slave  without  a 
master  still  kept  up  a  brave  pantomime  of  their  obsolete 


JAMES    LANE   ALLEN  357 

relations.  No  one  ever  saw  in  their  intercourse  aught  but  the 
finest  courtesy,  the  most  delicate  consideration.  The  very  tones 
of  their  voices  in  addressing  each  other  were  as  good  as  sermons 
on  gentleness,  their  antiquated  playfulness  as  melodious  as  the 
babble  of  distant  water.  To  be  near  them  was  to  be  exorcised 
of  evil  passions.  The  sun  of  their  day  had  indeed  long  since  set ; 
but,  like  twin  clouds  lifted  high  and  motionless  into  some  far 
quarter  of  the  gray  twilight  skies,  they  were  still  radiant  with 
the  glow  of  the  invisible  orb. 

Henceforth  the  colonel's  appearances  in  public  were  few  and 
regular.  He  went  to  church  on  Sundays,  where  he  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  choir  in  the  center  of  the  building,  and  sang  an 
ancient  bass  of  his  own  improvisation  to  the  older  hymns,  and 
glanced  furtively  around  to  see  whether  anyone  noticed  that  he 
could  not  sing  the  new  ones.  At  the  Sunday-school  picnics  the 
committee  of  arrangements  allowed  him  to  carve  the  mutton, 
and  after  dinner  to  swing  the  smallest  children  gently  beneath 
the  trees.  He  was  seen  on  Commencement  Day  at  Morrison 
Chapel,  where  he  always  gave  his  bouquet  to  the  valedictorian, 
whose  address  he  preferred  to  any  of  the  others.  In  the  autumn 
he  might  sometimes  be  noticed  sitting  high  up  in  the  amphi 
theater  at  the  fair  and  looking  over  into  the  ring  where  the 
judges  were  grouped  around  the  music-stand.  Once  he  had 
been  a  judge  himself,  with  a  blue  ribbon  in  his  buttonhole, 
while  the  band  played  "  Sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt,"  and  ''Gentle 
Annie."  The  ring  seemed  full  of  young  men  now,  and  no  one 
thought  of  offering  him  the  privileges  of  the  grounds.  In  his 
day  the  great  feature  of  the  exhibition  had  been  cattle ;  now 
everything  was  turning  into  a  horse  show.  He  was  always  glad 
to  get  home  again  to  Peter,  his  true  yokefellow.  For  just  as 
two  old  oxen  —  one  white  and  one  black  —  that  have  long  toiled 
under  the  same  yoke  will,  when  turned  out  to  graze  at  last  in 
the  widest  pasture,  come  and  put  themselves  horn  to  horn  and. 


358     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

flank  to  flank,  so  the  colonel  and  Peter  were  never  so  happy  as 
when  ruminating  side  by  side.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  the  twilight  of  a  late  autumn  day  in  the  same  year 
that  nature  gave  the  colonel  the  first  direct  intimation  to  pre 
pare  for  the  last  summons.  They  had  been  passing  along  the 
garden  walks,  where  a  few  pale  flowers  were  trying  to  flourish 
up  to  the  very  winter's  edge,  and  where  the  dry  leaves  had 
gathered  unswept  and  rustled  beneath  their  feet.  All  at  once 
the  colonel  turned  to  Peter,  who  was  a  yard  and  a  half  behind, 
as  usual,  and  said  :  "  Give  me  your  arm,  Peter  "  ;  and  thus  the 
two,  for  the  first  time  in  all  their  lifetime  walking  abreast,  passed 
slowly  on. 

"  Peter,"  said  the  colonel,  gravely,  a  minute  or  two  later,  "  we 
are  like  two  dried-up  stalks  of  fodder.  I  wonder  the  Lord  lets 
us  live  any  longer." 

"  I  reck'n  He  's  managin'  to  use  us  some  way,  or  we  would  n' 
be  heah,"  said  Peter. 

"  Well,  all  I  have  to  say  is,  that  if  He  's  using  me,  He  can't 
be  in  much  of  a  hurry  for  his  work,"  replied  the  colonel. 

"  He  uses  snails,  en  I  know  we  am'  ez  slow  ez  dem"  argued 
Peter,  composedly. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  think  a  snail  must  have  made  more  progress 
since  the  war  than  I  have." 

The  idea  of  his  uselessness  seemed  to  weigh  on  him,  for  a 
little  later  he  remarked,  with  a  sort  of  mortified  smile  :  "  Do  you 
think,  Peter,  that  we  would  pass  for  what  they  call  representative 
men  of  the  New  South  ?  " 

"  We  done  had  ou'  day,  Marse  Rom,"  replied  Peter.  "  We 
got  to  pass  fur  what  we  wuz.  Mebbe  de  Lohd  's  got  mo'  use 
fur  us  yit  'n  people  has,"  he  added,  after  a  pause. 

From  this  time  on  the  colonel's  strength  gradually  failed  him  ; 
but  it  was  not  until  the  following  spring  that  the  end  came. 
A.  night  or  two  before  his  death  his  mind  wandered  backward, 


JAMES    LAXE   ALLEN  359 

after  the  familiar  manner  of  the  dving,  and  his  delirious  dreams 
showed  the  shifting,  faded  pictures  that  renewed  themselves  for 
the  last  time  on  his  wasting  memory.  It  must  have  been  that 
he  was  once  more  amidst  the  scenes  of  his  active  farm  life,  for 
his  broken  snatches  of  talk  ran  thus : 

"  Come,  boys,  get  your  cradles !  Look  where  the  sun  is ! 
You  are  late  getting  to  work  this  morning.  That  is  the  finest 
field  of  wheat  in  the  county.  Be  careful  about  the  bundles  ! 
Make  them  the  same  size  and  tie  them  tight.  That  swath  is  too 
wide,  and  you  don't  hold  your  cradle  right,  Tom. 

"  Sell  Peter !  Sell  Peter  Cotton !  No,  sir !  You  might  buy 
me  some  day  and  work  me  in  your  cotton  field :  but  as  long 
as  he 's  mine,  you  can't  buy  Peter,  and  you  can't  buy  any  of 
my  negroes. 

"  Boys !  boys !  If  you  don't  work  faster,  you  won't  finish 
this  field  to-day.  You  'd  better  go  in  the  shade  and  rest  now. 
The  sun 's  very  hot.  Don't  drink  too  much  ice  water.  There  's 
a  jug  of  whisky  in  the  fence  corner.  Give  them  a  good  dram 
around,  and  tell  them  to  work  slow  till  the  sun  gets  lower." 

Once  during  the  night  a  sweet  smile  played  over  his  features 
as  he  repeated  a  few  words  that  were  part  of  an  old  rustic  song 
and  dance.  Arranged,  not  as  they  now  came  broken  and 
incoherent  from  his  lips,  but  as  he  once  had  sung  them,  they 
were  as  follows : 

"  O  Sister  Phoebe  !    How  merry  were  we 
When  we  sat  under  the  juniper-tree. 

The  juniper-tree,  heigho  ! 

Put  this  hat  on  your  head  !    Keep  your  head  warm  : 
Take  a  sweet  kiss !    It  will  do  you  no  harm. 

Do  you  no  harm,  I  know !  " 

After  this  he  sank  into  a  quieter  sleep,  but  soon  stirred  with 
a  look  of  intense  pain. 


360     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"  Helen  !  Helen  !  "  he  murmured.  "  Will  you  break  your 
promise  ?  Have  you  changed  in  your  feeling  towards  me  ? 
I  have  brought  you  the  pinks.  Won't  you  take  the  pinks, 
Helen  ? " 

Then  he  sighed  as  he  added,  "  It  was  n't  her  fault.  If  she 
had  only  known  —  " 

Who  was  the  Helen  of  that  far-away  time?  Was  this  the 
colonel's  love-story  ?  How  much  remained  untold  ? 

But  during  all  the  night,  whithersoever  his  mind  wandered,  at 
intervals  it  returned  to  the  burden  of  a  single  strain,  —  the 
harvesting.  Towards  daybreak  he  took  it  up  again  for  the 
last  time : 

"  O  boys,  boys,  boys  \  If  you  don't  work  faster  you  won't 
finish  the  field  to-day.  Look  how  low  the  sun  is !  —  I  am 
going  to  the  house.  They  can't  finish  the  field  to-day.  Let  them 
do  what  they  can,  but  don't  let  them  work  late.  I  want  Peter 
to  go  to  the  house  with  me.  Tell  him  to  come  on." 

In  the  faint  gray  of  the  morning  Peter,  who  had  been 
watching  by  the  bedside  all  night,  stole  out  of  the  room,  and 
going  into  the  garden  pulled  a  handful  of  pinks  —  a  thing  he 
had  never  done  before  —  and,  reentering  the  colonel's  bedroom, 
put  them  in  a  vase  near  his  sleeping  face.  Soon  afterwards  the 
colonel  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  around  him.  At  the  foot  of 
the  bed  stood  Peter,  and  on  one  side  sat  the  physician  and  a 
friend.  The  night  lamp  burned  low,  and- through  the  folds  of 
the  curtains  came  the  white  light  of  early  day. 

"  Put  out  the  lamp  and  open  the  curtains,"  he  said  feebly. 
"  It 's  day."  When  they  had  drawn  the  curtains  aside,  his  eyes 
fell  on  the  pinks,  sweet  and  fresh  with  the  dew  on  them.  He 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  touched  them  caressingly,  and  his 
eyes  sought  Peter's  with  a  look  of  grateful  tenderness. 

"  I  want  to  be  alone  with  Peter  for  a  while,"  he  said,  turning 
his  face  towards  the  others. 


JAMES    LANE   ALLEN  361 

When  they  were  left  alone,  it  was  some  minutes  before  they 
could  speak.  Peter,  not  knowing  what  he  did,  had  gone  to  the 
window  and  hid  himself  behind  the  curtains,  drawing  them 
tightly  around  his  form  as  though  to  shroud  himself  from  the 
coming  sorrow. 

At  length  the  colonel  said,  "  Come  here !  " 

Peter,  almost  staggering  forward,  fell  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
and,  clasping  the  colonel's  feet  with  one  arm,  pressed  his  cheek 
against  them. 

"  Come  closer !  " 

Peter  crept  on  his  knees  and  buried  his  head  on  the  colonel's 
thigh. 

"Come  up  here,  —  closer" ;  and  putting  one  arm  around 
Peter's  neck  he  laid  the  other  hand  softly  on  his  head,  and 
looked  long  and  tenderly  into  his  eyes. 

"  Peter,"  he  said  with  ineffable  gentleness,  "  if  I  had  served 
my  Master  as  faithfully  as  you  have  served  yours,  I  should  not 
feel  ashamed  to  stand  in  his  presence." 

"  If  my  Marseter  is  ez  mussiful  to  me  ez  you  have  been,  he 
will  save  my  soul  in  heaven." 

"  I  have  fixed  things  so  that  you  will  be  comfortable  after  I 
am  gone.  When  your  time  comes,  I  should  like  you  to  be  laid 
close  to  me.  We  can  take  the  long  sleep  together.  Are  you 
willing  ? " 

"  That 's  whar  I  want  to  be  laid." 

The  colonel  stretched  out  his  hand  to  the  vase,  and,  taking 
the  bunch  of  pinks,  said  very  calmly  :  "-Leave  these  in  my  hand 
when  I  am  dead ;  I  '11  carry  them  with  me."  A  moment  more, 
and  he  added :  "If  I  should  n't  wake  up  any  more,  good-by, 
Peter !  " 

"  Good-by,  Marse  Rom  !  " 

And  they  shook  hands.  After  this  the  colonel  lay  back  on 
the  pillows.  His  soft,  silvery  hair  contrasted  strongly  with  his 


362     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

childlike,  unspoiled,  open  face.  To  the  day  of  his  death,  as  is 
apt  to  be  true  of  those  who  have  lived  pure  lives  but  never 
married,  he  had  a  boyish  strain  in  him,  a  softness  of  nature, 
showing  itself  even  now  in  the  gentle  expression  of  his  mouth. 
His  brown  eyes  had  in  them  the  same  boyish  look  when,  just 
as  he  was  falling  asleep,  he  scarcely  opened  them  to  say, 
"  Pray,  Peter."  * 

Peter,  on  his  knees,  and  looking  across  the  colonel's  face 
towards  the  open  door,  through  which  the  rays  of  the  rising 
sun  streamed  in  upon  his  hoary  head,  prayed  while  the  colonel 
fell  asleep,  adding  a  few  words  for  himself  now  left  alone. 

Several  hours  later  memory  led  the  colonel  back  again 
through  the  dim  gateway  of  the  past,  and  out  of  that  gateway 
his  spirit  finally  took  flight  into  the  future. 

Peter  lingered  a  year.  The  place  went  to  the  colonel's  sister, 
but  he  was  allowed  to  remain  in  his  quarters.  With  much  think 
ing  of  the  past,  his  mind  fell  into  a  lightness  and  a  weakness. 
Sometimes  he  would  be  heard  crooning  the  burden  of  old 
hymns,  or  sometimes  seen  sitting  beside  the  old  brass-nailed 
trunk,  fumbling  with  the  spelling-book  and  the  Pilgrim's  Progress. 
Often  too  he  walked  out  to  the  cemetery  on  the  edge  of  the 
town,  and  each  time  could  hardly  find  the  colonel's  grave  amidst 
the  multitude  of  the  dead.  One  gusty  day  in  spring,  the  Scotch 
sexton,  busy  with  the  blades  of  blue  grass  springing  from  the 
animated  mold,  saw  his  familiar  figure  standing  motionless  be 
side  the  colonel's  resting  place.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat  — 
one  of  the  colonel's  last  bequests  —  and  laid  it  on  the  colonel's 
headstone.  On  his  body  he  wore  a  strange  coat  of  faded  blue, 
patched  and  weather-stained  and  so  moth-eaten  that  parts  of 
the  curious  tails  had  dropped  entirely  away.  In  one  hand  he 
held  an  open  Bible,  and  on  a  much-soiled  page  he  was  pointing 
with  his  finger  to  the  following  words :  "I  would  not  have  you 
ignorant,  brethren,  concerning  them  which  are  asleep." 


WILLIAM   SIDNEY   PORTER  363 

It  would  seem  that,  impelled  by  love  and  faith,  and  guided 
by  his  wandering  reason,  he  had  come  forth  to  preach  his  last 
sermon  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul  over  the  dust  of  his 
dead  master. 

The  sexton  led  him  home,  and  soon  afterwards  a  friend,  who 
had  loved  them  both,  laid  him  beside  the  colonel. 

It  was  perhaps  fitting  that  his  winding  sheet  should  be  the 
vestment  in  which,  years  agone,  he  had  preached  to  his  fellow 
slaves  in  bondage ;  for  if  it  so  be  that  the  dead  of  this  planet 
shall  come  forth  from  their  graves  clad  in  the  trappings  of 
mortality,  then  Peter  should  arise  on  the  Resurrection  Day 
wearing  his  old  jeans  coat. 


WILLIAM  SIDNEY  PORTER  ("  O.   HENRY  ") 

[William  Sidney  Porter,  better  known  by  his  pen  name  "  O.  Henry/' 
was  born  in  1862  at  Greensboro,  North  Carolina.  His  disposition 
early  led  him  into  a  roving  life,  and  he  successively  lived  on  a  cattle 
ranch  in  Texas,  did  newspaper  work  in  Houston  and  Austin,  spent 
a  while  in  South  America,  moved  to  New  Orleans,  and  in  1902 
settled  in  New  York,  where  he  was  living  at  the  time  of  his  death, 
in  1910.  He  achieved  widespread  popularity  as  a  writer  of  short 
stories,  which  in  the  collected  edition  of  his  works  fill  some  nine 
or  ten  volumes.] 

TWO  RENEGADES1 

In  the  Gate  City  of  the  South  the  Confederate  Veterans 
were  reuniting ;  and  I  stood  to  see  them  march,  beneath  the 
tangled  flags  of  the  great  conflict,  to  the  hall  of  their  oratory 
and  commemoration. 

While  the  irregular  and  halting  line  was  passing  I  made 
onslaught  upon  it  and  dragged  forth  from  the  ranks  my  friend 

1  Reprinted  from  "  Roads  of  Destiny  "  by  permission  of  the  holder  of  the 
copyright,  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company. 


364     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Barnard  O'Keefe,  who  had  no  right  to  be  there.  For  he  was 
a  Northerner  born  and  bred ;  and  what  should  he  be  doing 
hallooing  for  the  Stars  and  Bars  among  those  gray  and  mori 
bund  veterans?  And  why  should  he  be  trudging,  with  his 
shining,  martial,  humorous,  broad  face,  among  those  warriors 
of  a  previous  and  alien  generation  ? 

I  say  I  dragged  him  forth,  and  held  him  till  the  last  hickory 
leg  and  waving  goatee  had  stumbled  past.  And  then  I  hustled 
him  out  of  the  crowd  into  a  cool  interior ;  for  the  Gate  City 
was  stirring  that  day,  and  the  hand  organs  wisely  eliminated 
"  Marching  through  Georgia  "  from  their  repertories. 

"  Now,  what  deviltry  are  you  up  to  ? "  I  asked  of  O'Keefe 
when  there  were  a  table  and  things  in  glasses  between  us. 

O'Keefe  wiped  his  heated  face  and  instigated  a  commotion 
among  the  floating  ice  in  his  glass  before  he  chose  to  answer. 

"  I  am  assisting  at  the  wake,"  said  he,  "  of  the  only  nation 
on  earth  that  ever  did  me  a  good  turn.  As  one  gentleman  to 
another,  I  am  ratifying  and  celebrating  the  foreign  policy  of  the 
late  Jefferson  Davis,  as  fine  a  statesman  as  ever  settled  the 
financial  question  of  a  country.  Equal  ratio  —  that  was  his 
platform  —  a  barrel  of  money  for  a  barrel  of  flour  —  a  pair  of 
$20  bills  for  a  pair  of  boots  —  a  hatful  of  currency  for  a  new 
hat  —  say,  ain't  that  simple  compared  with  W.  J.  B.'s  little  old 
oxidized  plank  ?  " 

"  What  talk  is  this  ?"  I  asked.  "  Your  financial  digression  is 
merely  a  subterfuge.  Why  are  you  marching  in  the  ranks  of 
the  Confederate  Veterans?" 

"  Because,  my  lad,"  answered  O'Keefe,  "  the  Confederate 
government  in  its  might  and  power  interposed  to  protect  and 
defend  Barnard  O'Keefe  against  immediate  and  dangerous 
assassination  at  the  hands  of  a  bloodthirsty  foreign  country, 
after  the  United  States  of  America  had  overruled  his  appeal 
for  protection  and  had  instructed  Private  Secretary  Cortelyou 


WILLIAM    SIDNEY    PORTER  365 

to  reduce  his  estimate  of  the  Republican  majority  for  1905 
by  one  vote." 

"Come,  Barney/'  said  I,  "the  Confederate  States  of  America 
has  been  out  of  existence  for  nearly  forty  years.  You  do  not 
look  older  yourself.  When  was  it  that  the  deceased  government 
exerted  its  foreign  policy  in  your  behalf  ? " 

"  Four  months  ago,"  said  O'Keefe,  promptly.  "  The  infa 
mous  foreign  power  I  alluded  to  is  still  staggering  from  the 
official  blow  dealt  it  by  Mr.  Davis's  contraband  aggregation  of 
states.  That's  why  you  see  me  cake\valking  with  the  ex-rebs 
to  the  illegitimate  tune  about  simmon  seeds  and  cotton.  I  vote 
for  the  Great  Father  in  Washington,  but  I  am  not  going  back 
on  Mars'  Jeff.  You  say  the  Confederacy  has  been  dead  forty 
years?  Well,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  it,  I'd  have  been  breathing 
to-day  with  soul  so  dead  I  could  n't  have  whispered  a  single 
'cuss-word'  about  my  native  land.  The  O'Keefes  are  not  over 
burdened  with  ingratitude." 

I  must  have  looked  bewildered.  "  The  war  was  over,"  I 
said  vacantly,  "in  — 

O'Keefe  laughed  loudly,  scattering  my  thoughts. 

"  Ask  old  Doc  Millikin  if  the  war  is  over ! "  he  shouted, 
hugely  diverted.  "  Oh,  no !  Doc  has  n't  surrendered  yet.  And 
the  Confederate  States !  Well,  I  just  told  you  they  bucked  offi 
cially  and  solidly  and  nationally  against  a  foreign  government 
four  months  ago  and  kept  me  from  being  shot.  Old  Jeff's 
country  stepped  in  and  brought  me  off  under  its  wing  while 
Roosevelt  was  having  a  gunboat  repainted  and  waiting  for  the 
National  Campaign  Committee  to  look  up  whether  I  had  ever 
scratched  the  ticket." 

"  Is  n't  there  a  story  in  this,  Barney  ?  "   I  asked. 

"  No,"  said  O'Keefe ;  "  but  I  '11  give  you  the  facts.  Y^ou 
know  how  I  went  down  to  Panama  when  this  irritation  about  a 
canal  began.  I  thought  I'd  get  in  on  the  ground  floor.  I  did, 


366     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

and  had  to  sleep  on  it,  and  drink  water  with  little  zoos  in  it ; 
so,  of  course  I  got  the  Chagres  fever.  That  was  in  a  little  town 
called  San  Juan  on  the  coast. 

"  After  I  got  the  fever  hard  enough  to  kill  a  Port-au-Prince 
nigger,  I  had  a  relapse  in  the  shape  of  Doc  Millikin. 

"  There  was  a  doctor  to  attend  a  sick  man  !  If  Doc  Millikin 
had  your  case,  he  made  the  terrors  of  death  seem  like  an  in 
vitation  to  a  donkey  party.  He  had  the  bedside  manners  of  a 
Piute  medicine  man  and  the  soothing  presence  of  a  dray  loaded 
with  bridge  girders.  When  he  laid  his  hand  on  your  fevered 
brow  you  felt  like  Cap.  John  Smith  just  before  Pocahontas 
went  his  bail. 

"  Well,  this  old  medical  outrage  floated  down  to  my  shack 
when  I  sent  for  him.  He  was  built  like  a  shad,  and  his  eye 
brows  was  black,  and  his  white  whiskers  trickled  down  from  his 
chin  like  milk  coming  out  of  a  sprinkling  pot.  He  had  a  nigger 
boy  along  carrying  an  old  tomato  can  full  of  calomel,  and  a  saw. 

"  Doc  felt  my  pulse,  and  then  he  began  to  mess  up  some 
calomel  with  an  agricultural  implement  that  belonged  to  the 
trowel  class.  .  .  . 

"  By  this  time  Doc  Millikin  had  thrown  up  a  line  of  fortifica 
tions  on  square  pieces  of  paper ;  and  he  says  to  me :  *  Yank, 
take  one  of  these  powders  every  two  hours.  They  won't  kill  you. 
I  '11  be  around  again  about  sundown  to  see  if  you  're  alive.' 

"  Old  Doc's  powders  knocked  the  Chagres.  I  stayed  in  San 
Juan,  and  got  to  knowing  him  better.  He  was  from  Mississippi, 
and  the  red-hottest  Southerner  that  ever  smelled  mint.  He  made 
Stonewall  Jackson  and  R.  E.  Lee  look  like  Abolitionists.  He 
had  a  family  somewhere  down  near  Yazoo  City ;  but  he  stayed 
away  from  the  States  on  account  of  an  uncontrollable  liking  he 
had  for  the  absence  of  a  Yankee  government.  Him  and  me  got 
as  thick  personally  as  the  emperor  of  Russia  and  the  dove  of 
peace,  but  sectionally  we  didn't  amalgamate. 


WILLIAM   SIDNEY   PORTER  367 

f  'T  was  a  beautiful  system  of  medical  practice  introduced  by 
old  Doc  into  that  isthmus  of  land.  He  'd  take  that  bracket  saw 
and  the  mild  chloride  and  his  hypodermic,  and  treat  anything 
from  yellow  fever  to  a  personal  friend. 

"  Besides  his  other  liabilities  Doc  could  play  a  flute  for  a 
minute  or  two.  He  was  guilty  of  two  tunes  —  'Dixie'  and 
another  one  that  was  mighty  close  to  '  Suwanee  River '  —  you 
might  say  it  was  one  of  its  tributaries.  He  used  to  come  down 
and  sit  with  me  while  I  was  getting  well,  and  aggrieve  his  flute 
and  say  unreconstructed  things  about  the  North.  You  *d  have 
thought  the  smoke  from  the  first  gun  at  Fort  Sumter  was  still 
floating  around  in  the  air. 

[O'Keefe  tells  how,  participating  in  a  Colombian  revolution 
on  the  insurgent  side,  he  was  captured  by  the  government 
troops  and  after  a  trial  was  sentenced  to  be  shot  in  two 
weeks.  His  appeal  to  the  American  consul  for  protection 
proving  ineffectual,  he  requests  the  consul  to  have  Doc  Millikin 
come  to  see  him.] 

"  Doc  comes  and  looks  through  the  bars  at  me,  surrounded 
by  dirty  soldiers,  with  even  my  shoes  and  canteen  confiscated, 
and  he  looks  mightily  pleased. 

5  *  Hello,  YTank,'  says  he,  *  getting  a  little  taste  of  Johnson's 
Island,  now,  ain't  ye  ? ' 

5  *  Doc,'  says  I,  '  I  Ve  just  had  an  interview  with  the  U.  S. 
consul.  I  gather  from  his  remarks  that  I  might  just  as  well  have 
been  caught  selling  suspenders  in  Kishineff  under  the  name  of 
Rosenstein  as  to  be  in  my  present  condition.  It  seems  that  the 
only  maritime  aid  I  am  to  receive  from  the  United  States  is  some 
navy  plug  to  chew.  Doc,'  says  I,  *  can't  you  suspend  hostilities 
on  the  slavery  question  long  enough  to  do  something  for  me  ? ' 

: '  It  ain't  been  my  habit/  Doc  Millikin  answers,  *  to  do  any 
painless  dentistry  when  I  find  a  Y7ank  cutting  an  eyetooth.  So 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  ain't  landing  any  marines  to  shell  the  huts 


368     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

of  the  Colombian  cannibals,  hey  ?  Oh,  ^say,  can  you  see  by  the 
dawn's  early  light  the  star-spangled  banner  has  fluked  in  the 
fight?  What 's  the  matter  with  the  War  Department,  hey ?  It's 
a  great  thing  to  be  a  citizen  of  a  gold-standard  nation,  ain't  it? ' 

:  *  Rub  it  in,  Doc,  all  you  want,'  says  I.  *  I  guess  we  're 
weak  on  foreign  policy.' 

' '  For  a  Yank,'  says  Doc,  putting  on  his  specs  and  talking 
more  mild,  '  you  ain't  so  bad.  If  you  had  come  from  below  the 
line  I  reckon  I  would  have  liked  you  right  smart.  Now  since 
your  country  has  gone  back  on  you,  you  have  to  come  to  the 
old  doctor  whose  cotton  you  burned  and  whose  mules  you  stole 
and  whose  niggers  you  freed  to  help  you.  Ain't  that  so,  Yank  ? ' 

"It  is '  says  I,  heartily,  '  and  let 's  have  a  diagnosis  of  the 
case  right  away,  for  in  two  weeks'  time  all  you  can  do  is  to 
hold  an  autopsy  and  I  don't  want  to  be  amputated  if  I  can 
help  it.' 

' '  Now,'  says  Doc,  businesslike,  '  it 's  easy  enough  for  you 
to  get  out  of  this  scrape.  Money  '11  do  it.  You  Ve  got  to  pay 
a  long  string  of  'em  from  General  Pomposo  down  to  this 
anthropoid  ape  guarding  your  door.  About  ten  dollars  will 
do  the  trick.  Have  you  got  the  money  ? ' 

"  Me  ? '  says  I.  '  I  Ve  got  one  Chile  dollar,  two  real  pieces, 
and  a  media. .' 

'  Then  if  you  Ve  any  last  words,  utter  'em,'  says  that  old 
reb.  '  The  roster  of  your  financial  budget  sounds  quite  much  to 
me  like  the  noise  of  a  requiem.' 

*  *  Change  the  treatment,'  says  I.    'I  admit  that  I'm  short. 
Call  a  consultation  or  use  radium  or  smuggle  me  in  some  saws 
or  something.' 

*  *  Yank,'  says  Doc  Millikin,  *  I  Ve  a  good  notion  to  help  you. 
There  's  only  one  government  in  the  world  that  can  get  you 
out  of  this  difficulty;   and   that's   the  Confederate   States  of 
America,  the  grandest  nation  that  ever  existed.' 


WILLIAM    SIDNEY   PORTER  369 

"  Just  as  you  said  to  me  I  says  to  Doc :  '  Why,  the  Confed 
eracy  ain't  a  nation.  It 's  been  absolved  forty  years  ago.' 

*  That 's  a  campaign  lie/  says  Doc.  *  She  's  running  along 
as  solid  as  the  Roman  Empire.  She  's  the  onjy  hope  you  've 
got.  Now,  you,  being  a  Yank,  have  got  to  go  through  with 
some  preliminary  obsequies  before  you  can  get  official  aid. 
You  Ve  got  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  the  Confederate 
government.  Then  I  '11  guarantee  she  does  all  she  can  for  you. 
What  do  you  say,  Yank  ?  —  it 's  your  last  chance.' 

! '  If  you  're  fooling  with  me,  Doc/  I  answers,  '  you  're  no 
better  than  the  United  States.  But  as  you  say  it 's  the  last 
chance,  hurry  up  and  swear  me.  I  always  did  like  corn  whisky 
and  possum  anyhow.  I  believe  I'm  half  Southerner  by  nature. 
I'm  willing  to  try  the  Ku-Klux  in  place  of  the  khaki.  Get  brisk.' 

"  Doc  Millikin  thinks  awhile,  and  then  he  offers  me  this  oath 
of  allegiance  to  take  without  any  kind  of  chaser : 

' '  I,  Barnard  O'Keefe,  Yank,  being  of  sound  body  but  a  Re 
publican  mind,  do  hereby  swear  to  transfer  my  fealty,  respect, 
and  allegiance  to  the  Confederate  States  of  America,  and  the  gov 
ernment  thereof  in  consideration  of  said  government,  through 
its  official  acts  and  powers,  obtaining  my  freedom  and  release 
from  confinement  and  sentence  of  death  brought  about  by  the 
exuberance  of  my  Irish  proclivities  and  my  general  pizenness 
as  a  Yank.' 

"  I  repeated  these  words  after  Doc,  but  they  seemed  to  me 
a  kind  of  hocus-pocus ;  and  I  don't  believe  any  life-insurance 
company  in  the  country  would  have  issued  me  a  policy  on  the 
strength  of  'em. 

"  Doc  went  away,  saying  he  would  communicate  with  his 
government  immediately. 

"  Say  —  you  can  imagine  how  I  felt  —  me  to  be  shot  in  two 
weeks  and  my  only  hope  for  help  being  in  a  government  that 's 
been  dead  so  long  that  it  is  n't  even  remembered  except  on 


3/0     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Decoration  Day  and  when  Joe  Wheeler  signs  the  voucher  for 
his  pay  check.  But  it  was  all  there  was  in  sight ;  and  somehow 
I  thought  Doc  Millikin  had  something  up  his  old  alpaca  sleeve 
that  was  n't  all  foolishness. 

"  Around  to  the  jail  comes  old  Doc  again  in  about  a  week. 
I  was  fleabitten,  a  mite  sarcastic,  and  fundamentally  hungry. 

' '  Any  Confederate  ironclads  in  the  offing  ? '  I  asks.  *  Do 
you  notice  any  sounds  resembling  the  approach  of  Jeb  Stewart's 
cavalry  overland  or  Stonewall  Jackson  sneaking  up  in  the  rear  ? 
If  you  do,  I  wish  you  'd  say  so.' 

1 '  It 's  too  soon  yet  for  help  to  come,'  says  Doc. 

*  The  sooner  the  better,'  says  I.    '  I  don't  care  if  it  gets  in 
fully  fifteen  minutes  before  I  am  shot ;  and  if  you  happen  to 
lay  eyes  on  Beauregard  or  Albert  Sidney  Johnston  or  any  of 
the  relief  corps,  wigwag  'em  to  hike  along.' 

*  There  's  been  no  answer  received  yet,'  says  Doc. 

' '  Don't  forget,'  says  I,  *  that  there  's  only  four  days  more. 
I  don't  know  how  you  propose  to  work  this  thing,  Doc,'  I  says 
to  him ;  *  but  it  seems  to  me  I'd  sleep  better  if  you  had  got  a 
government  that  was  alive  and  on  the  map  —  like  Afghanistan 
or  Great  Britain,  or  old  man  Kruger's  kingdom,  to  take  this 
matter  up.  I  don't  mean  any  disrespect  to  your  Confederate 
States,  but  I  can't  help  feeling  that  my  chances  of  being  pulled 
out  of  this  scrape  was  decidedly  weakened  when  General  Lee 
surrendered.' 

'  *  It 's  your  only  chance,'  says  Doc  ;  '  don't  quarrel  with  it. 
What  did  your  own  country  do  for  you  ? ' 

"  It  was  only  two  days  before  the  morning  I  was  to  be  shot, 
when  Doc  Millikin  came  around  again. 

"''  All  right,  Yank,'  says  he.  '  Help  's  come.  The  Confeder 
ate  States  of  America  is  going  to  apply  for  your  release.  The 
representatives  of  the  government  arrived  on  a  fruit  steamer 
last  night.' 


WILLIAM   SIDNEY   PORTER  371 

"  *  Bully  ! '  says  I  — '  bully  for  you,  Doc  !  I  suppose  it 's 
marines  with  a  Catling.  I  am  going  to  love  your  country  all  I 
can  for  this.' 

* '  Negotiations,'  says  old  Doc,  '  will  be  opened  between  the 
two  governments  at  once.  You  will  know  later  on  to-day  if 
they  are  successful.' 

"  About  four  in  the  afternoon  a  soldier  in  red  trousers  brings 
a  paper  round  to  the  jail,  and  they  unlocks  the  door  and  I 
walks  out.  The  guard  at  the  door  bows  and  I  bows,  and  I  steps 
into  the  grass  and  wades  around  to  Doc  Millikin's  shack. 

"  Doc  was  sitting  in  his  hammock,  playing  *  Dixie/  soft  and 
low  and  out  of  tune,  on  his  flute.  I  interrupted  him  at  *  Look 
away  !  look  away  ! '  and  shook  his  hand  for  five  minutes. 

* '  I  never  thought/  says  Doc,  taking  a  chew  fretfully,  *  that 
I'd  ever  try  to  save  any  blame  Yank's  life.  But,  Mr.  O'Keefe, 
I  don't  see  but  what  you  are  entitled  to  be  considered  part 
human,  anyhow.  I  never  thought  Yanks  had  any  of  the  rudi 
ments  of  decorum  and  laudability  about  them.  I  reckon  I 
might  have  been  too  aggregative  in  my  tabulation.  But  it  ain't 
me  you  want  to  thank — it's  the  Confederate  States  of  America.' 

f  *  And  I'm  much  obliged  to  'em/  says  I.  *  It 's  a  poor  man 
that  would  not  be  patriotic  with  a  country  that 's  saved  his  life. 
I  '11  drink  to  the  Stars  and  Bars  whenever  there  's  a  flagstaff 
and  a  glass  convenient.  But  where/  says  I,  f  are  the  rescuing 
troops?  If  there  was  a  gun  fired  or  a  shell  burst,  I  didn't 
hear  it.' 

"  Doc  Millikin  raises  up  and  points  out  the  window  with  his 
flute  at  the  banana  steamer  loading  with  fruit. 

"  'Yank/  says  he,  '  there  's  a  steamer  that 's  going  to  sail  in 
the  morning.  If  I  was  you,  I'd  sail  on  it.  The  Confederate 
government's  done  all  it  can  for  you.  There  wasn't  a  gun 
fired.  The  negotiations  was  carried  on  secretly  between  the 
two  nations  by  the  purser  of  that  steamer.  I  got  him  to  do  it 


3/2     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

because  I  did  n't  want  to  appear  in  it.   Twelve  thousand  dollars 
was  paid  to  the  officials  in  bribes  to  let  you  go.' 

"Man!'  says  I,  sitting  down  hard,  'twelve  thousand  — 
how  will  I  ever  —  who  could  have  —  where  did  the  money 
come  from  ? ' 

'  Yazoo  City,'  says  Doc  Millikin.  '  I  've  got  a  little  saved 
up  there.  Two  barrels  full  of  it.  It  looks  good  to  these 
Colombians.  'T  was  Confederate  money,  every  dollar  of  it. 
Now  do  you  see  why  you  'd  better  leave  before  they  try  to 
pass  some  of  it  on  an  expert  ? ' 

"  '  I  do/  says  I. 

tf  Now  let 's  hear  you  give  the  password,'  says  Doc  Millikin. 

!  *  Hurrah  for  Jeff  Davis  ! '  says  I. 

"  *  Correct,'  says  Doc.  *  And  let  me  tell  you  something :  The 
next  tune  I  learn  on  my  flute  is  going  to  be  "Yankee  Doodle." 
I  reckon  there  's  some  Yanks  that  are  not  so  pizen.  Or,  if  you 
was  me,  would  you  try  "  The  Red,  White,  and  Blue  "  ? '  " 


ESSAYISTS  AND  DESCRIPTIVE  WRITERS 

SUSAN  DABNEY  SMEDES 

[Mrs.  Susan  Dabney  Smedes  was  born  at  Raymond,  Mississippi, 
in  1840,  and  was  the  daughter  of  Thomas  S.  Dabney,  a  planter 
whose  life  forms  the  basis  of  her  description  of  life  on  a  Southern 
plantation,  entitled  "  Memorials  of  a  Southern  Planter."  She  was 
married  in  1860  to  Lyell  Smedes,  but  was  in  a  few  months  left  a 
widow.  Her  life  has  been  largely  devoted  to  philanthropic  work. 
Her  home  at  present  is  Sewanee.  Tennessee.] 

A  SOUTHERN  PLANTER'S  IDEALS  OF  HONOR1 

And  now  a  great  blow  fell  on  Thomas  Dabney.  Shortly 
before  the  war  he  had  been  asked  by  a  trusted  friend  to  put 
his  name  as  security  on  some  papers  for  a  good  many  thousand 
dollars.  At  the  time  he  was  assured  that  his  name  wrould  only 
be  wanted  to  tide  over  a  crisis  of  two  weeks,  and  that  he  would 
never  hear  of  the  papers  again.  It  was  a  trap  set,  and  his 
unsuspicious  nature  saw  no  danger,  and  he  put  his  name  to 
the  papers.  Loving  this  man,  and  confiding  in  his  honor  as  in 
a  son's,  he  thought  no  more  of  the  transaction. 

It  was  now  the  autumn  of  1866.  One  night  he  walked  up 
stairs  to  the  room  where  his  children  were  sitting,  with  a  paper 
in  his  hand.  "  My  children,"  he  said,  "  I  am  a  ruined  man. 
The  sheriff  is  downstairs.  He  has  served  this  writ  on  me.  It 
is  for  a  security  debt.  I  do  not  even  know  how  many  more 
such  papers  have  my  name  to  them."  His  face  was  white  as 

1  Reprinted  from  "  Memorials  of  a  Southern  Planter,"  by  permission  of  the 
holder  of  the  copyright,  James  Pott  &  Company. 

373 


3/4     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

he  said  these  words.  He  was  sixty-eight  years  of  age,  with 
a  large  and  helpless  family  on  his  hands,  and  the  country  in 
such  a  condition  that  young  men  scarcely  knew  how  to  make 
a  livelihood. 

The  sheriff  came  with  more  writs.  Thomas  roused  himself 
to  meet  them  all.  He  determined  to  pay  every  dollar. 

But  to  do  this  he  must  have  time.  The  sale  of  everything 
that  he  owned  would  not  pay  all  these  claims.  He  put  the 
business  in  the  hands  of  his  lawyer,  Mr.  John  Shelton,  of 
Raymond,  who  was  also  his  intimate  friend.  Mr.  Shelton 
contested  the  claims,  and  this  delayed  things  till  Thomas 
could  decide  on  some  way  of  paying  the  debts. 

A  gentleman  to  whom  he  owed  personally  several  thousand 
dollars  courteously  forbore  to  send  in  his  clairn.  Thomas  was 
determined  that  he  should  not  on  this  account  fail  to  get  his 
money,  and  wrote  urging  him  to  bring  a  friendly  suit,  that,  if 
the  worst  came,  he  should  at  least  get  his  proportion.  Thus 
urged,  the  friendly  suit  was  brought,  the  man  deprecating  the 
proceeding,  as  looking  like  pressing  a  gentleman. 

And  now  the  judgments,  as  he  knew  they  would,  went 
against  him  one  by  one.  On  the  2;th  of  November,  1866, 
the  Burleigh  plantation  was  put  up  at  auction  and  sold,  but 
the  privilege  of  buying  it  in  a  certain  time  reserved  to  Thomas. 
At  this  time  incendiary  fires  were  common.  There  was  not 
much  law  in  the  land.  We  heard  of  the  ginhouses  and  cotton- 
houses  that  were  burned  in  all  directions.  One  day  as  Thomas 
came  back  from  a  business  journey  the  smoldering  ruins  of 
his  ginhouse  met  his  eye.  The  building  was  itself  valuable  and 
necessary.  All  the  cotton  that  he  owned  was  consumed  in  it. 
He  had  not  a  dollar.  He  had  to  borrow  the  money  to  buy  a 
postage  stamp,  not  only  during  this  year  but  during  many  years 
to  come.  It  was  a  time  of  deepest  gloom.  Thomas  had  been 
wounded  to  the  bottom  of  his  affectionate  heart  by  the  perfidy 


SUSAN   DABNEY  SMEDES  ;;; 

of  the  man  who  had  brought  this  on  his  house.  In  the  midst 
of  the  grinding  poverty  that  now  fell  in  full  force  on  him,  he 
heard  of  the  reckless  extravagance  of  this  man  on  the  money 
that  should  have  been  used  to  meet  these  debts. 

Many  honorable  men  in  the  South  were  taking  the  benefit 
of  the  bankrupt  law.  Thomas's  relations  and  friends  urged 
him  to  take  the  law.  It  was  madness,  they  said,  for  a  man  of 
his  age,  in  the  condition  the  country  was  then  in,  to  talk  of 
settling  the  immense  debts  that  were  against  him.  He  refused 
with  scorn  to  listen  to  such  proposals.  But  his  heart  was  well- 
nigh  broken. 

He  called  his  children  around  him,  as  he  lay  in  bed,  not 
eating  and  scarcely  sleeping. 

"  My  children."  he  said,  "  I  shall  have  nothing  to  leave  you 
but  a  fair  name.  But  you  may  depend  that  I  shall  leave  you 
that.  I  shall,  if  I  live,  pay  even-  dollar  that  I  owe.  If  I  die,  I 
leave  these  debts  to  you  to  discharge.  Do  not  let  my  name  be 
dishonored.  Some  men  would  kill  themselves  for  this.  I  shall 
not  do  that.  But  I  shall  die." 

The  grief  of  betrayed  trust  was  the  bitterest  drop  in  his  cup 
of  suffering.  But  he  soon  roused  himself  from  this  depression 
and  set  about  arranging  to  raise  the  money  needed  to  buy 
in  the  plantation.  It  could  only  be  done  by  giving  up  all  the 
money  brought  in  by  the  cotton  crop  for  many  years.  This 
meant  rigid  self-denial  for  himself  and  his  children.  He  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  seeing  his  daughters  deprived  of  com 
forts.  He  was  ready  to  stand  iinflinchingly  any  fate  that  might 
be  in  store  for  him.  But  his  tenderest  feelings  were  stirred 
for  them.  His  chivalrous  nature  had  always  revolted  from  the 
sight  of  a  woman  doing  hard  work.  He  determined  to  spare 
his  daughters  all  such  labor  as  he  could  perform.  General 
Sherman  had  said  that  he  would  like  to  bring  even-  Southern 
woman  to  the  washtub.  "  He  shall  never  bring  my  daughters 


3/6     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

to  the  washtub,"  Thomas  Dabney  said.  "  I  will  do  the  washing 
myself."  And  he  did  it  for  two  years.  He  was  in  his  seventieth 
year  when  he  began  to  do  it. 

This  may  give  some  idea  of  the  labors,  the  privations,  the 
hardships,  of  those  terrible  years.  The  most  intimate  friends 
of  Thomas,  nay,  his  own  children,  who  were  not  in  the  daily 
life  at  Burleigh,  have  never  known  the  unprecedented  self- 
denial,  carried  to  the  extent  of  acutest  bodily  sufferings,  which 
he  practiced  during  this  time.  A  curtain  must  be  drawn  over 
this  part  of  the  life  of  my  lion-hearted  father  1 

When  he  grew  white  and  thin,  and  his  frightened  daughters 
prepared  a  special  dish  for  him,  he  refused  to  eat  the  delicacy. 
It  would  choke  him,  he  said,  to  eat  better  food  than  they  had, 
and  he  yielded  only  to  their  earnest  solicitations.  He  would 
have  died  rather  than  ask  for  it.  When  the  living  was  so 
coarse  and  so  ill-prepared  that  he  could  scarcely  eat  it,  he 
never  failed,  on  rising  from  the  table,  to  say  earnestly  and 
reverently,  as  he  stood  by  his  chair,  "  Thank  the  Lord  for 
this  much." 

During  a  period  of  eighteen  months  no  light  in  summer,  and 
none  but  a  fire  in  winter,  except  in  some  case  of  necessity,  was 
seen  in  the  house.  He  was  fourteen  years  in  paying  these 
debts  that  fell  on  him  in  his  sixty-ninth  year.  He  lived  but 
three  years  after  the  last  dollar  was  paid. 


BASIL  LANNEAU  GILDERSLEEVE 

[Basil  Lanneau  Gildersleeve  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Caro 
lina,  in  1831.  After  graduating  from  Princeton  he  studied  in  several 
German  universities  and  then  returned  to  the  United  States  to  en 
gage  in  teaching.  For  several  years  he  was  professor  of  Latin  and 
Greek  in  the  University  of  Virginia,  and  since  1876  he  has  been 
professor  of  Greek  in  Johns  Hopkins  University.  While  he  is  well 


BASIL   LANNEAU   GILDERSLEEVE  377 

known  as  the  author  of  textbooks  and  monographs  in  his  chosen 
field  of  scholarship,  he  has  also  shown  himself  in  such  volumes  as 
"  Essays  and  Studies  "  and  "  Hellas  and  Hesperia  "  to  be  gifted  as 
an  English  stylist.] 

THE  CREED  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH1 

A  few  months  ago,  as  I  was  leaving  Baltimore  for  a  summer 
sojourn  on  the  coast  of  Maine,  two  old  soldiers  of  the  war  be 
tween  the  states  took  their  seats  immediately  behind  me  in  the 
car  and  began  a  lively  conversation  about  the  various  battles  in 
which  they  had  faced  each  other  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  cen 
tury  ago,  when  a  trip  to  New  England  would  have  been  no 
holiday  jaunt  for  one  of  their  fellow  travelers.  The  veterans 
went  into  the  minute  detail  that  always  puts  me  to  shame, 
when  I  think  how  poor  an  account  I  should  give  if  pressed 
to  describe  the  military  movements  that  I  have  happened  to 
witness ;  and  I  may  as  well  acknowledge  at  the  outset  that  I 
have  as  little  aptitude  for  the  soldier's  trade  as  I  have  for  the 
romancer's.  Single  incidents  I  remember  as  if  they  were  of 
yesterday.  Single  pictures  have  burned  themselves  into  my 
brain.  But  I  have  no  vocation  to  tell  how  fields  were  lost  and 
won,  and  my  experience  of  military  life  wras  too  brief  and  fitful 
to  be  of  any  value  to  the  historian  of  the  war.  For  my  own 
life  that  experience  has  been  of  the  utmost  significance,  and 
despite  the  heavy  price  I  have  had  to  pay  for  my  outings, 
despite  the  daily  reminder  of  five  long  months  of  intense 
suffering,  I  have  no  regrets.  An  able-bodied  young  man,  with 
a  long  vacation  at  his  disposal,  could  not  have  done  otherwise, 
and  the  right  to  teach  Southern  youth  for  nine  months  was 
earned  by  sharing  the  fortunes  of  their  fathers  and  brothers 
at  the  front  for  three.  Self-respect  is  everything;  and  it  is 

1  Reprinted  from  « The  Creed  of  the  Old  South,"  by  permission  of  the 
holder  of  the  copyright,  the  Johns  Hopkins  Press. 


3/8     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

something  to  have  belonged  in  deed  and  in  truth  to  an  heroic 
generation,  to  have  shared  in  a  measure  its  perils  and  priva 
tions.  But  that  heroic  generation  is  apt  to  be  a  bore  to  a 
generation  whose  heroism  is  of  a  different  type,  and  I  doubt 
whether  the  young  people  in  our  car  took  much  interest  in  the 
very  audible  conversation  of  the  two  veterans.  Twenty-five 
years  hence,  when  the  survivors  will  be  curiosities,  as  were 
Revolutionary  pensioners  in  my  childhood,  there  may  be  a 
renewal  of  interest.  As  it  is,  few  of  the  present  generation 
pore  over  "  The  Battles  and  Leaders  of  the  Civil  War,"  and  a 
grizzled  old  Confederate  has  been  heard  to  declare  that  he  in 
tended  to  bequeath  his  copy  of  that  valuable  work  to  someone 
outside  of  the  family,  so  provoked  was  he  at  the  supineness 
of  his  children.  And  yet,  for  the  truth's  sake,  all  these  battles 
must  be  fought  over  and  over  again,  until  the  account  is  cleared 
and  until  justice  is  done  to  the  valor  and  skill  of  both  sides. 

The  two  old  soldiers  were  talking  amicably  enough,  as  all 
old  soldiers  do,  but  they  "  yarned,"  as  all  old  soldiers  do,  and 
though  they  talked  from  Baltimore  to  Philadelphia,  and  from 
Philadelphia  to  New  York,  their  conversation  was  lost  on  me, 
for  my  thoughts  went  back  into  my  own  past,  and  two  pictures 
came  up  to  rrie  from  the  time  of  the  war. 

In  the  midsummer  of  1863  I  was  serving  as  a  private  in  the 
First  Virginia  Cavalry.  Gettysburg  was  in  the  past  and  there 
was  not  much  fighting  to  be  done,  but  the  cavalry  was  not 
wholly  idle.  Raids  had  to  be  intercepted,  and  the  enemy  was 
not  to  be  allowed  to  vaunt  himself  too  much ;  so  that  I  gained 
some  experience  of  the  hardships  of  that  arm  of  the  service 
and  found  out  by  practical  participation  what  is  meant  by  a 
cavalry  charge.  To  a  looker-on  nothing  can  be  finer.  To  the 
one  who  charges,  or  is  supposed  to  charge,  —  for  the  horse 
seemed  to  me  mainly  responsible,  —  the  details  are  somewhat 
cumbrous.  Now  in  one  of  these  charges  some  of  us  captured 


BASIL  LANNEAU   GILDERSLEEVE  379 

a  number  of  the  opposing  force,  among  them  a  young  lieu 
tenant.  Why  this  particular  capture  should  have  impressed  me 
so,  I  cannot  tell,  but  memory  is  a  tricky  thing.  A  large  red  fox 
scared  up  from  his  lair  by  the  fight  at  Castleman's  Ferry  stood 
for  a  moment  looking  at  me,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  stare 
of  that  red  fox.  At  one  of  our  fights  near  Kernstown  a  spent 
bullet  struck  a  horse  on  the  side  of  his  nose,  which  happened 
to  be  white,  and  left  a  perfect  imprint  of  itself ;  and  the  jerk 
of  the  horse's  head  and  the  outline  of  the  bullet  are  present  to 
me  still.  The  explosion  of  a  particular  caisson,  the  shriek  of  a 
special  shell,  will  ring  in  one's  ears  for  life.  A  captured  lieu 
tenant  was  no  novelty,  and  yet  this  captured  lieutenant  caught 
my  eye  and  held  it.  A  handsomer  young  fellow,  a  more  noble- 
looking,  I  never  beheld  among  Federals  or  Confederates,  as  he 
stood  there,  bareheaded,  among  his  captors,  erect  and  silent. 
His  eyes  were  full  of  fire,  his  lips  showed  a  slight  quiver  of 
scorn,  and  his  hair  seemed  to  tighten  its  curls  in  defiance. 
Doubtless  I  had  seen  as  fine  specimens  of  young  manhood 
before,  but  if  so,  I  had  seen  without  looking,  and  this  man 
was  evidently  what  we  called  a  gentleman. 

Southern  men  were  proud  of  being  gentlemen,  although  they 
have  been  told  in  every  conceivable  tone  that  it  was  a  foolish 
pride  —  foolish  in  itself,  foolish  in  that  it  did  not  have  the 
heraldic  backing  that  was  claimed  for  it ;  the  utmost  conces 
sion  being  that  a  number  of  "  deboshed "  younger  sons^  of 
decayed  gentry  had  been  shipped  to  Virginia  in  the  early 
settlement  of  that  colony.  But  the  very  pride  played  its  part 
in  making  us  what  we  were  proud  of  being,  and  whether 
descendants  of  the  aforesaid  "  deboshed,"  of  simple  English 
yeoman,  of  plain  Scotch-Irish  Presbyterians  (a  doughty  stock), 
or  of  Huguenots  of  various  ranks  of  life,  we  all  held  to  the 
same  standard,  and  showed,  as  was  thought,  undue  exclusive- 
ness  on  this  subject.  But  this  prisoner  was  the  embodiment 


380     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

of  the  best  type  of  Northern  youth,  with  a  spirit  as  high,  as 
resolute,  as  could  be  found  in  the  ranks  of  Southern  gentle 
men  ;  and  though  in  theory  all  enlightened  Southerners  recog 
nized  the  high  qualities  of  some  of  our  opponents,  this  one 
noble  figure  in  "  flesh  and  blood "  was  better  calculated  to 
inspire  respect  for  "  those  people,"  as  we  had  learned  to  call 
our  adversaries,  than  many  pages  of  "  gray  theory." 

A  little  more  than  a  year  afterwards,  in  Early's  Valley  cam 
paign,  —  a  rude  school  of  warfare,  —  I  was  serving  as  a  vol 
unteer  aid  on  General  Gordon's  staff.  The  day  before  the 
disaster  of  Fisher's  Hill  I  was  ordered,  together  with  another 
staff  officer,  to  accompany  the  general  on  a  ride  to  the  front. 
The  general  had  a  well-known  weakness  for  inspecting  the  out 
posts —  a  weakness  that  made  a  position  in  his  suite  somewhat 
precarious.  The  officer  with  whom  I  was  riding  had  not  been 
with  us  long,  and  wherr  he  joined  the  staff  he  had  just  recovered 
from  wounds  and  imprisonment.  A  man  of  winning  appear 
ance,  sweet  temper,  and  attractive  manners,  he  soon  made 
friends  of  the  military  family,  and  I  never  learned  to  love  a 
man  so  much  in  so  brief  an  acquaintance,  though  hearts  knit 
quickly  in  the  stress  of  war.  He  was  highly  educated,  and 
foreign  residence  and  travel  had  widened  his  vision  without 
affecting  the  simple  faith  and  thorough  consecration  of  the 
Christian.  Here  let  me  say  that  the  bearing  of  the  Confeder 
ates  is  not  to  be  understood  without  taking  into  account  the 
deep  religious  feeling  of  the  army  and  its  great  leaders.  It  is 
a  historical  element,  like  any  other,  and  is  not  to  be  passed 
over  in  summing  up  the  forces  of  the  conflict.  "  A  soldier 
without  religion,"  says  a  Prussian  officer,  who  knew  our  army 
as  well  as  the  German,  "  is  an  instrument  without  value,"  and 
it  is  not  unlikely  that  the  knowledge  of  the  part  that  faith 
played  in  sustaining  the  Southern  people  may  have  lent  em 
phasis  to  the  expression  of  his  conviction. 


BASIL   LANNEAU   GILDERSLEEVE  381 

We  rode  together  towards  the  front,  and  as  we  rode  our 
talk  fell  on  Goethe  and  on  Faust,  and  of  all  passages  the 
soldiers'  song  came  up  to  my  lips  —  the  song  of  soldiers  of 
fortune,  not  the  chant  of  men  whose  business  it  was  to  defend 
their  country.  Two  lines,  however,  were  significant : 

Kiihn  ist  das  Miihen, 
Herrlich  der  Lohn. 

We  reached  the  front.  An  occasional  "  zip "  gave  warning 
that  the  sharpshooters  were  not  asleep,  and  the  quick  eye  of 
the  general  saw  that  our  line  needed  rectification,  and  how. 
Brief  orders  were  given  to  the  officer  in  command.  My  com 
rade  was  left  to  aid  in  carrying  them  out.  The  rest  of  us  with 
drew.  Scarcely  had  we  ridden  a  hundred  yards  towards  camp 
when  a  shout  was  heard,  and,  turning  round,  we  saw  one  of 
the  men  running  after  us.  "The  captain  had  been  killed." 
The  peace  of  heaven  was  on  his  face  as  I  gazed  on  the  noble 
features  that  afternoon.  The  bullet  had  passed  through  his 
official  papers  and  found  his  heart.  He  had  received  his  dis 
charge,  and  the  glorious  reward  had  been  won. 

This  is  the  other  picture  that  the  talk  of  the  two  old  soldiers 
called  up  —  dead  Confederate  against  living  Federal ;  and  these 
two  pictures  stand  out  before  me  again,  as  I  am  trying  to  make 
others  understand  and  to  understand  myself  what  it  was  to  be  a 
Southern  man  twenty-five  years  ago  ;  what  it  was  to  accept  with 
the  whole  heart  the  creed  of  the  Old  South.  The  image  of  the 
living  Federal  bids  me  refrain  from  harsh  words  in  the  presence 
of  those  who  were  my  captors.  The  dead  Confederate  bids  me 
uncover  the  sacred  memories  that  the  dust  of  life's  Appian  Way 
hides  from  the  tenderest  and  truest  of  those  whose  business  it 
is  to  live  and  work.  For  my  dead  comrade  of  the  Valley  cam 
paign  is  one  of  many  —  some  of  them  my  friends,  some  of  them 
my  pupils  as  well.  The  eighteenth  of  July,  1861,  laid  low  one 


382     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

of  my  Princeton  College  roommates ;  on  the  twenty-first,  the 
day  of  the  great  battle,  the  other  fell  —  both  bearers  of  historic 
names,  both  upholding  the  cause  of  their  state  with  as  unclouded 
a  conscience  as  any  saint  in  the  martyrology  ever  wore ;  and  from 
that  day  to  the  end,  great  battle  and  outpost  skirmish  brought 
me,  week  by  week,  a  personal  loss  in  men  of  the  same  type.  .  .  . 
The  war  began,  the  war  went  on.  Passion  was  roused  to 
fever  heat.  Both  sides  "  saw  red,"  that  physiological  condition 
which  to  a  Frenchman  excuses  everything.  The  proverbial  good 
humor  of  the  American  people  did  not,  it  is  true,  desert  the 
country,  and  the  Southern  men  who  were  in  the  field,  as  they 
were  much  happier  than  those  who  stayed  at  home,  if  I  may 
judge  by  my  own  experience,  were  often  merry  enough  by  the 
camp  fire  and  exchanged  rough  jests  with  the  enemy's  pickets. 
But  the  invaded  people  were  very  much  in  earnest,  however 
lightly  some  of  their  adversaries  treated  the  matter,  and  as  the 
pressure  of  the  war  grew  tighter,  the  more  somber  did  life 
become.  A  friend  of  mine,  describing  the  crowd  that  besieged 
the  Gare  de  Lyon  in  Paris,  when  the  circle  of  fire  was  drawing 
round  the  city  and  foreigners  were  hastening  to  escape,  told 
me  that  the  press  was  so  great  that  he  could  touch  in  every 
direction  those  who  had  been  crushed  to  death  as  they  stood  and 
had  not  had  room  to  fall.  Not  wholly  unlike  this  was  the  pres 
sure  brought  to  bear  on  the  Confederacy.  It  was  only  neces 
sary  to  put  out  your  hand  and  you  touched  a  corpse ;  and  that 
not  an  alien  corpse,  but  the  corpse  of  a  brother  or  a  friend. 
Every  Southern  man  becomes  grave  when  he  thinks  of  that 
terrible  stretch  of  time,  partly,  it  is  true,  because  life  was  nobler, 
but  chiefly  because  of  the  memories  of  sorrow  and  suffering. 
A  professional  Southern  humorist  once  undertook  to  write  in 
dialect  a  "  Comic  History  of  the  War,"  but  his  heart  failed  him, 
as  his  public  would  have  failed  him,  and  the  serial  lived  only  for 
a  number  or  two. 


BASIL   LANNEAU   GILDERSLEEVE  383 

The  war  began,  the  war  went  on.  War  is  a  rough  game. 
It  is  an  omelet  that  cannot  be  made  without  breaking  eggs,  not 
only  eggs  in  esse,  but  also  eggs  in  posse.  So  far  as  I  have 
read  about  war,  ours  was  no  worse  than  other  wars.  While  it 
lasted,  the  conduct  of  the  combatants  on  either  side  was  rep 
resented  in  the  blackest  colors  by  the  other.  Even  the  ordinary 
and  legitimate  doing  to  death  was  considered  criminal  if  the 
deed  was  done  by  a  ruthless  rebel  or  ruffianly  invader.  Non- 
combatants  were  especially  eloquent.  In  describing  the  end  of 
a  brother  who  had  been  killed  while  trying  to  get  a  shot  at  a 
Yankee,  a  Southern  girl  raved  about  the  "murdered  patriot" 
and  the  "  dastardly  wretch "  who  had  anticipated  him.  But 
I  do  not  criticize,  for  I  remember  an  English  account  of  the 
battle  of  New  Orleans,  in  which  General  Pakenham  was  repre 
sented  as  having  been  picked  off  by  a  "sneaking  Yankee  rifle." 
Those  who  were  engaged  in  the  actual  conflict  took  more  rea 
sonable  views,  and  the  annals  of  the  war  are  full  of  stories  of 
battlefield  and  hospital  in  which  a  common  humanity  asserted 
itself.  But  brotherhood  there  was  none.  No  alienation  could 
have  been  more  complete.  Into  the  fissure  made  by  the  dis 
ruption  poured  all  the  bad  blood  that  had  been  breeding  from 
Colonial  times,  from  Revolutionary  times,  from  "bleeding  Kan 
sas"  and  the  engine-house  at  Harper's  Ferry;  and  a  great  gulf 
was  fixed,  as  it  seemed  forever,  between  North  and  South.  The 
hostility  was  a  very  satisfactory  one  —  for  military  purposes. 

The  war  began,  the  war  went  on  —  this  politicians'  conspiracy, 
this  slaveholders'  rebellion,  as  it  was  variously  called  by  those 
who  sought  its  source,  now  in  the  disappointed  ambition  of  the 
Southern  leaders,  now  in  the  desperate  determination  of  a  slave- 
holding  oligarchy  to  perpetuate  their  power  and  to  secure  for 
ever  their  proprietorship  in  their  "  human  chattels."  On  this 
theory  the  mass  of  the  Southern  people  were  but  puppets  in 
the  hands  of  political  wirepullers  or  blind  followers  of  hectoring 


384     SOUTHERN   LIFE   IN   SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 


"patricians."  To  those  who  know  the  Southern  peoj^  nothing- 
can  be  more  absurd  —  to  those  who  know  their  personal  in- 
dependence,  to  those  who  know  the  deep  interest  which 
have"  always  taken  in  politics,  the  keen  intelligence  with 
they  have  always  followed  the  questions  oi  the  day..  The  court- 
house~gieeil  wa~s  ihe  political  university  of  the  Southern  masses, 
and  the  hustings  the  professorial  chair,  from  which  the  great 
political  and  economical  questions  of  the  day  were  presented,  to 
say  the  least,  as  fully  and  intelligently  as  in  the  newspapers  to 
which  so  much  enlightenment  is  attributed.  There  was  no  such 
system  of  rotten  boroughs,  no  such  domination  of  a  landed 
aristocracy,  throughout  the  South  as  has  been  imagined,  and 
venality,  which  is  the  disgrace  of  current  politics,  was  practically 
unknown.  The  men  who  represented  the  Southern  people  in 
Washington  came  from,  the  people,  and  not  from  a  ring.  North 
ern  writers  who  have  ascribed  the  firm  control  in  Congress  of 
the  national  government  which  the  South  held  so  long  to  the 
superior  character,  ability,  and  experience  of  its  representatives 
do  not  seem  to  be  aware  that  the  choice  of  such  representatives 
and  their  prolonged  tenure  show  that  in  politics,  at  least,  the 
education  of  the  Southerner  had  not  been  neglected.  The  rank 
and  file  then  were  not  swayed  simply  by  blind  passion  or  duped 
by  the  representatives  of  political  gamesters.  Nor  did  the  lump 
need  the  leavening  of  the  large  percentage  of  men  of  the  upper 
classes  who  served  as  privates,  some  of  them  from  the  begin 
ning  to  the  end  of  the  war.  The  rank  and  file  were,  to  begin 
with,  in  full  accord  with  the  great  principles  of  the  war,  and 
were  sustained  by  the  abiding  conviction  of  the  justice  of  the 
cause.  Of  course  there  were  in  the  Southern  army,  as  in  every 
army,  many  who  went  with  the  multitude  in  the  first  enthusiastic 
rush,  or  who  were  brought  into  the  ranks  by  the  needful  process 
of  conscription  ;  but  it  is  not  a  little  remarkable  that  few  of  the 
poorest  and  the  most  ignorant  could  be  induced  to  forswear  the 


BASIL   LANNEAU   GILDERSLEEVE  385 

cause  and  to  purchase  release  from  the  sufferings  of  imprison 
ment  by  the  simple  process  of  taking  the  oath.  Those  who 
have  seen  the  light  of  battle  on  the  faces  of  these  humble 
sons  of  the  South  or  witnessed  their  steadfastness  in  camp, 
on  the  march,  in  the  hospital,  have  not  been  ashamed  of  their 
brotherhood. 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  fighting  for  a  principle,  an  idea; 
but  principle  and  idea  must  be  incarnate,  and  the  principle  of 
state  rights  was  incarnate  in  the  historical  life  of  the  Southern 
people.  Of  the  thirteen  original  states,  Virginia,  North  Carolina, 
South  Carolina,  and  Georgia  were  openly  and  officially  upon 
the  side  of  the  South.  Maryland  as  a  state  \vas  bound  hand 
and  foot.  We  counted  her  as_ours,  for  the  Potomac  and  Ches 
apeake  Bay  united  as  well  as  divided.  Everyone  was  some 
thing  more  than  a  certain  aggregate  of  square  miles  wherein 
dwelt  an  uncertain  number  of  uncertain  inhabitants,  something 
more  than  a  territory  transformed  into  a  state  by  the  magic  of 
political  legerdemain  —  a  creature  of  the  central  government, 
and  duly  loyal  to  its  creator. 

In  claiming  this  individuality,  nothing  more  is  claimed  for 
Virginia  and  for  South  Carolina  than  would  be  conceded  to 
Massachusetts  and  Connecticut;  and  we  believed  then  that 
Massachusetts  and  Connecticut  would  not  have  behaved  other 
wise  than  we  did,  if  the  parts  had  been  reversed.  The 
brandished  sword  would  have  shown  what  manner  of  placida 
quies  would  have- ensued,  if  demands  had  been  made  on  Massa 
chusetts  at  all  commensurate  with  the  federal  demands  on 
Virginia.  These  older  Southern  states  were  proud  of  their  his 
tory,  and  they  showed  their  pride  by  girding  at  their  neighbors. 
South  Carolina  had  her  fling  at  Georgia,  her  fling  at  North 
Carolina ;  and  the  wish  that  the  little  State  had  been  scuttled 
at  an  early  day  was  a  plagiarism  from  classical  literature  that 
might  have  emanated  from  the  South  as  well  as  from  the  North. 


386     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Virginia  assumed  a  superiority  that  was  resented  by  her  South 
ern  sisters  as  well  as  by  her  Northern  partners.  The  Old  North 
State  derided  the  pretensions  of  the  commonwealths  that  flanked 
her  on  either  side,  and  Georgia  was  not  slow  to  give  South 
Carolina  as  good  as  she  sent.  All  this  seemed  to  be  harmless 
banter,  but  the  rivalry  was  old  enough  and  strong  enough  to 
encourage  the  hopes  of  the  Union  leaders  that  the  Confederacy 
would  split  along  state  lines.  The  cohesive  power  of  the  Revo 
lutionary  War  was  not  sufficiently  strong  to  make  the  states 
sink  their  contributions  to  the  common  cause  in  the  common 
glory.  Washington  was  the  one  national  hero,  and  yet  the 
Washington  Light  Infantry  of  Charleston  was  named,  not  after 
the  illustrious  George,  but  after  his  kinsman,  William.  The 
story  of  Lexington  and  Concord  and  Bunker  Hill  did  not  thrill 
the  South  Carolinian  of  an  earlier  day,  and  those  great  achieve 
ments  were  actually  criticized.  Who  were  Putnam  and  Stark 
that  South  Carolinians  should  worship  them,  when  they  had  a 
Marion  and  a  Sumter  of  their  own  ?  Vermont  went  wild,  the 
other  day,  over  Bennington  as  she  did  not  over  the  centenary 
of  the  surrender  at  Yorktown.  (Take  away  this  local  patriotism 
and  you  take  out  all  the  color  that  is  left  in  American  life.) 
That  the  local  patriotism  may  not  only  consist  with  a  wider 
patriotism,  but  may  serve  as  a  most  important  element  in  a 
wider  patriotism,  is  true.  Witness  the  strong  local  life  in  the 
old  provinces  of  France.  No  student  of  history,  no  painter  of 
manners  can  neglect  it.  In  "  Gerfaut,"  a  novel  written  before 
the  Franco-Prussian  War,  Charles  de  Bernard  represents  an 
Alsatian  shepherd  as  saying,  "  I  am  not  French ;  I  am  Alsa 
tian."  "  Trait  de  patriotisme  de  docker  assez  commun  dans  la 
belle  province  du  Rhin"  adds  the  author,  little  dreaming  of  the 
national  significance  of  that  "  patriotisme  de  clocher."  The 
Breton's  love  of  his  home  is  familiar  to  everyone  who  has  read 
his  "  Renan,"  and  Blanche  Willis  Howard,  in  "  Guenn,"  makes 


BASIL   LANNEAU   GILDERSLEEVE  387 

her  priest  exclaim:  "  Monsieur,  I  would  fight  with  France  against 
any  other  nation,  but  I  would  fight  with  Brittany  against  France. 
I  love  France.  I  am  a  Frenchman.  But  first  of  all  I  am  a 
Breton."  The  Provencal  speaks  of  France  as  if  she  were  a 
foreign  country,  and  fights  for  her  as  if  she  were  his  alone. 
What  is  true  of  France  is  true  in  a  measure  of  England.  Dev 
onshire  men  are  notoriously  Devonshire  men  first  and  last.  If 
this  is  true  of  what  have  become  integral  parts  of  a  kingdom 
or  republic  by  centuries  of  incorporation,  what  is  to  be  said  of 
the  states  that  had  never  renounced  their  sovereignty,  that  had 
only  suspended  it  in  part  ? 

The  example  of  state  pride  set  by  the  older  states  was  not 
lost  on  the  younger  Southern  states,  and  the  Alabamian  and 
the  Mississippian  lived  in  the  same  faith  as  did  the  stock  from 
which  they  sprang ;  and  the  community  of  views,  of  interest, 
of  social  order,  soon  made  a  larger  unit  and  prepared  the  way 
for  a  true  nationality,  and  with  the  nationality  a  great  conflict. 
The  heterogeneousness  of  the  elements  that  made  up  the  Con 
federacy  did  not  prove  the  great  source  of  weakness  that  was 
expected.  The  Border  states  looked  on  the  world  with  different 
eyes  from  the  Gulf  states.  The  Virginia  farmer  and  the  Creole 
planter  of  Louisiana  were  of  different  strains ;  and  yet  there 
was  a  solidarity  that  has  never  failed  to  surprise  the  few 
Northerners  who  penetrated  the  South  for  study  and  pleasure. 
There  was  an  extraordinary  ramification  of  family  and  social  ties 
throughout  the  Southern  states,  and  a  few  minutes'  conversa 
tion  sufficed  to  place  any  member  of  the  social  organism  from 
Virginia  to  Texas.  Great  schools,  like  the  University  of  Virginia, 
within  the  Southern  border  did  much  to  foster  the  community 
of  feeling,  and  while  there  were  not  a  few  Southerners  at  Har 
vard  and  Yale,  and  while  Princeton  was  almost  a  Southern  col 
lege,  an  education  in  the  North  did  not  seem  to  nationalize 
the  Southerner.  On  the  contrary,  as  in  the  universities  of  the 


388     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Middle  Ages,  groups  were  formed  in  accordance  with  nativity ; 
and  sectional  lines,  though  effaced  at  certain  points,  were 
strengthened  at  others.  There  may  have  been  a  certain  broad 
ening  of  view ;  there  was  no  weakening  of  home  ties.  West 
Point  made  fewer  converts  to  this  side  and  to  that  than  did  the 
Northern  wives  of  Southern  husbands,  the  Southern  wives  of 
Northern  husbands. 

All  this  is  doubtless  controvertible,  and  what  has  been  written 
may  serve  only  to  amuse  or  to  disgust  those  who  are  better 
versed  in  the  facts  of  our  history  and  keener  analysts  of  its 
laws.  All  I  vouch  for  is  the  feeling ;  the  only  point  that  I  have 
tried  to  make  is  the  simple  fact  that,  right  or  wrong,  we  were 
fully  persuaded  in  our  own  minds,  and  that  there  was  no  lurk 
ing  suspicion  of  any  moral  weakness  in  our  cause.  Nothing 
could  be  holier  than  the  cause,  nothing  more  imperative  than 
the  duty  of  upholding  it.  There  were  those  in  the  South  who, 
when  they  saw  the  issue  of  the  war,  gave  up  their  faith  in  God, 
but  not  their  faith  in  the  cause. 


WILLIAM  PETERFIELD  TRENT 

[William  Peterfield  Trent  was  born  at  Richmond,  Virginia,  in 
1862.  After  graduating  from  the  University  of  Virginia  and  pur 
suing  postgraduate  studies  at  Johns  Hopkins  University,  he  became 
professor  of  English  in  the  University  of  the  South,  Sewanee, 
Tennessee.  This  position  he  held  from  1888  to  1900,  when  he 
accepted  a  professorship  in  English  literature  in  Columbia  Univer 
sity,  New  York  City,  which  he  now  holds.  His  many  books  on 
historical  and  literary  subjects  (especially  notable  being  "  Life  of 
William  Gilmore  Simms,"  "Authority  of  Criticism,"  and  "A  History 
of  American  Literature  ")  have  made  him  known  of  the  foremost 
critics  of  literature  in  the  United  States.  While  at  the  University 
of  the  South  he  was  the  first  editor  of  the  Sewanee  Review  —  a 
magazine  important  to  literary  and  historical  research  in  the  South.] 


WILLIAM   PETERFIELD   TRENT  389 

THE  DIVERSITY  AMONG  SOUTHERNERS1 

A  "  Solid  South  "  would  seem  to  presuppose  a  homogeneous 
Southern  people  coextensive  with  the  geographical,  or  rather 
political,  area  thus  designated  ;  but  to  draw  this  inference  would 
be  to  make  a  mistake  almost  equal  to  that  made  by  the  Euro 
pean  who  thinks  Chicago  a  three  or  four  hours'  ride  from 
New  York,  and  confounds  our  Eastern  and  Western  populations. 
If  political  opinions  and  prejudices  be  not  taken  into  account, 
the  typical  Charlestonian  will  be  found  to  differ  as  much  from 
the  average  inhabitant  of  Nashville  as  the  typical  New  Yrorker 
does  from  his  rival  of  Chicago.  The  Virginian  and  the  Georgian 
have  points  of  contact,  to  be  sure,  but  they  differ  radically  in 
many  important  respects  —  just  as  radically  as  a  citizen  of 
New  Jersey  does  from  a  citizen  of  Wisconsin.  They  may,  per 
haps,  differ  more  radically,  on  account  of  the  fact  that  state 
lines  are  more  strictly  drawn  in  the  South  than  in  any  other 
portion  of  the  Union.  It  is,  of  course,  measurably  true  to  affirm 
that  the  Southern  people  are  descendants  in  the  main  of  that 
portion  of  the  English  people  "  who  had  been  least  modernized, 
who  still  retained  a  large  element  of  the  feudal  notion."  The 
usual  assumption  that  the  civilization  of  the  North  is  Puritan, 
while  that  of  the  South  is  Cavalier,  rests  on  a  substantial  though 
small  basis  of  fact.  It  is  further  true  that  the  institution  of 
slavery  gave  a  more  or  less  uniform  patriarchal  tone  to  society 
in  every  Southern  state.  But  when  all  the  points  of  resem 
blance  are  numbered  and  estimated,  it  will  still  be  found  that 
the  tidewater  South  differs  from  the  Southwest  as  much  as 
New  England  does  from  the  Northwest,  that  each  state  of  a 
subsection  differs  from  its  neighbors,  and  that  there  are  im 
portant  lines  of  cleavage  within  some  of  the  states  themselves. 

1  Reprinted  from  the  article  "  Dominant  Tendencies  of  the  South,"  Atlantic 
Monthly,  Vol.  LXXIX,  page  42. 


390     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Such  a  general  proposition,  however,  is  of  little  value  unless  it 
is  accompanied  by  particular  illustrations. 

The  two  leading  types  of  Southern  population  are  plainly  the 
Virginian  and  the  South  Carolinian  of  the  tidewater.  For  this 
fact  there  are  both  historical  and  physiographical  reasons. 
Virginia  was  the  first  and  South  Carolina  the  second  Southern 
colony  to  be  settled  by  well-to-do  Englishmen  who  desired  to 
found  permanent  homes.  The  introduction  of  slavery  and  its 
application  to  staple  crops  speedily  gave  an  aristocratic  tone  to 
society  in  both  provinces ;  but  between  them,  in  North  Caro 
lina,  and  to  the  south  of  them,  in  Georgia,  there  were  fewer 
wealthy  settlers  and  no  staple  crops  to  speak  of,  so  that  from 
the  first,  society  in  these  provinces  was  more  or  less  democratic 
in  spite  of  slavery.  Before,  however,  the  gentry  of  the  coast 
could  expand  and  occupy  the  country  lying  between  the  Blue 
Ridge  and  the  Alleghenies,  and  beyond  the  latter  range  of 
mountains,  a  very  different  sort  of  people  had  moved  in  and 
taken  possession.  Hardy  Scotch-Irish  Presbyterians,  thrifty 
German  Lutherans,  sober  and  industrious  Quakers,  had  occu 
pied  the  "up  country,"  and  in  North  Carolina  had  spread 
toward  the  coast.  Among  these  people,  owing  to  their  habits 
and  the  nature  of  their  soil,  slavery  could  take  no  strong  hold ; 
hence  they  remained  democratic  and  distinct  from  their  tide 
water  neighbors,  as  indeed  they  are  to  this  day.  So  it  came  to 
pass  that  when,  after  the  Revolution,  tidewater  Virginians,  in 
consequence  of  debt  and  the  impoverishment  of  the  land,  deter 
mined  to  emigrate,  they  passed  over  the  two  mountain  ranges 
and  settled  in  Kentucky,  or  went  as  far  to  the  southwest  as 
Alabama,  later  on,  while  the  hardy  mountain  people,  hungry 
for  land  and  eager  for  adventure,  moved  along  the  valleys  and 
over  convenient  passes  and  founded  settlements,  the  more 
important  of  which  were  destined  to  coalesce  into  the  distinc 
tively  democratic  commonwealth  of  Tennessee.  Meanwhile,  the 


WILLIAM   PETERFIELD  TRENT  391 

invention  of  the  cotton  gin  made  it  worth  the  South  Carolinian's 
while  to  bide  at  home,  and  opened  up  to  immigration  and  set 
tlement  the  states  bordering  on  the  Gulf.  As  in  the  case  of  all 
new  countries,  the  inflowing  population  was  extremely  mixed, 
but  the  man  who  had  most  slaves  could  clear  his  land  and  start 
his  cotton  soonest ;  and  so  throughout  the  lower  tier  of  south 
western  states  aristocracy  triumphed,  on  the  whole,  over 
democracy,  being  somewhat  aided  by  the  presence  of  French 
and  Spanish  populations  at  Mobile  and  New  Orleans.  But  in 
the  midst  of  all  this  movement  and  confusion  the  tidewater 
Virginians  and  South  Carolinians  stood  for  political  and  social 
ideals  before  which  the  rest  of  the  South  and  the  Southwest 
bowed  until  the  advent  of  Jackson  and  his  frontier  Democrats 
to  power.  The  Virginian  fell  before  the  storm,  but  the  South 
Carolinian  bent  and  rose  again.  Slavery,  not  Tennessee  de 
mocracy,  represented  the  aspirations  of  the  Southern  people 
during  the  three  momentous  decades  before  the  Civil  War,  and 
slavery's  banner  Calhoun  and  his  South  Carolinians  were  ob 
viously  best  fitted  to  bear.  So  it  has  come  about  that  the  early 
prestige  of  Virginia  and  the  later  prestige  of  South  Carolina 
have  invested  the  "  low  country  "  inhabitants  of  those  states  — 
for  it  is  "  low  country  "  ideals  that  have  prevailed  —  with  an 
importance  in  the  eyes  of  their  fellow  Southerners  and  of  the 
rest  of  the  world  that  is  only  just  beginning  to  be  shaken  by 
the  progress  of  commonwealths  that  have  learned  better  how 
to  utilize  their  material  resources.  But  what  now  can  one  say 
of  these  two  types  of  Southerners  ? 

In  the  first  place,  they  are  nearer  to  the  type  of  Englishmen 
that  originally  settled  in  the  two  colonies  than  might  be  ex 
pected,  when  the  lapse  of  time  is  considered.  They  are  distinctly 
less  American  in  their  habits  of  thought  and  action  than  are 
Georgians  or  Tennesseeans,  New  Yorkers,  or  lowans.  In  the 
cities  one  naturally  finds  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  people,  but 


392     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

in  the  country  and  in  the  bosom  of  indigenous  families  one 
finds  oneself  continually  confronted  with  some  survival  or 
recrudescence  of  English  trait  or  custom.  There  is  a  certain 
colonialism  in  the  attitude  assumed  by  many  of  these  good  folks 
toward  all  things  modern  and  American  that  strikes  one  as  odd 
in  people  who  gave  Washington  and  the  Pinckneys  to  the  cause 
of  independence.  There  is  a  persistence  in  customs,  a  loyalty 
to  beliefs  and  traditions,  a  naivete  of  self-satisfaction  that  canm^L— 
be  called  conceit,  a  clannTshness,  an  attachment  to  the  soil, 
that  are  radically  English  and  thoroughly  picturesque,  but  are 
certainly  not  American. 

These  and  similar  traits  the  tidewater  inhabitants  of  the  two 
states  have  in  common.  And  yet  they  differ  to  such  a  degree 
that  even  the  superficial  observer  has  no  difficulty  in  dis 
tinguishing  them  without  having  recourse  to  such  external 
peculiarities  as  dialect  or  physical  appearance.  The  Virginian 
is  more  democratic  than  the  South  Carolinian ;  he  has  more 
bonhomie ;  he  is  not  nearly  so  punctilious,  or  stern,  or  fiery. 
A  true  South  Carolinian  gentleman  would  never  have  sat  in  the 
White  House  with  slippers  worn  down  at  the  heels,  as  Jefferson 
did.  Many  Virginian  gentlemen  would  not  have  done  it,  either, 
but  they  would  have  comprehended  how  it  was  possible  to 
do  it.  In  some  way  or  other,  the  Virginian  developed  from  a 
seventeenth-century  into  an  eighteenth-century  English  squire. 
He  became  more  or  less  an  easy-going  optimist,  fond  of  good 
company  and  good  living,  never  so  vulgar  as  Squire  Western, 
but  likely  to  fall  into  careless,  slipshod  habits  unless  upheld, 
as  was  often  the  case,  by  the  refined  women  about  him.  With 
the  South  Carolinian  it  seems  to  have  been  different.  What 
with  the  infusion  of  sober  Huguenot  blood,  what  with  the  mas 
terful  qualities  necessitated  by  his  isolated  position  among  great 
masses  of  black  barbarians,  he  took  himself  and  life  more  seri 
ously  than  the  Virginian  did,  and  he  does  so  to  this  day.  He 


WILLIAM    PETERFIELD   TRENT  393 

has  the  earnestness  and  much  of  the  courtly  charm  of  the  best 
type  of  seventeenth-century  Englishman.  If  the  Virginian  gen 
tleman  is  a  Squire  Airworthy,  the  South  Carolinian  is,  if  it  can 
be  conceived,  a  Colonel  Hutchinson  fighting  on  the  Royalist 
side.  One  even  finds  that  a  Virginian  boy  of  the  better  classes 
has  more  bonhomie  and  less  dignity  than  a  South  Carolinian  of 
similar  age  and  breeding.  The  Virginian  loves  his  state  and  is 
proud  of  her  history,  but  on  alien  soil,  amid  a  pleasant  com 
pany,  he  can  forget  her.  The  South  Carolinian  is  rarely  so 
unbending,  and  is,  unintentionally  no  doubt,  supercilious  toward 
all  other  peoples  and  states.  He  is  not  merely  glad  to  hail 
from  his  native  state,  he  is  not  merely  anxious  to  return  thither 
to  die,  he  is  miserable  whenever  and  as  long  as  he  is  not  living 
there.  Nay,  he  actually  wishes  to  be  rooted  to  a  particular 
parish  or  town.  The  genius  loci  is  the  god  he  worships,  and  he 
stands  for  everything  that  is  not  cosmopolitan.  Hence  he  is 
par  excellence  the  Southern  conservative,  so  thoroughgoing  in 
his  provincialism  that  it  ceases  to  appear  narrow  and  small, 
and  reaches  the  infinite  if  not  the  sublime.  On  this  side,  as 
indeed  in  general  intensity  of  nature,  he  goes  far  beyond  the 
Virginian.  The  latter  is  conservative  and  slow  to  move,  yet 
after  all  he  is  a  disciple  of  Jefferson,  and  he  cannot  help  re 
membering  that  his  kinsfolk  peopled  Kentucky  and  that  there 
are  men  of  Virginian  stock  thriving  in  all  parts  of  the  country. 
But  even  on  him  the  waves  of  progress  have  had  to  dash  and 
dash  in  order  to  produce  any  effect,  and  he  stands  to-day,  with 
the  South  Carolinian,  like  a  promontory  jutting  out  into  a 
rising  sea.  His  promontory  is,  however,  a  little  greener  than 
that  of  his  neighbor. 

Such,  in  the  main,  is  the  material  on  which  the  Zeitgeist  has 
had  to  work  in  the  two  Southern  states  that  were  in  the  lead 
before  the  Civil  War  practically  leveled  everything.  Very  differ 
ent,  as  we  have  seen,  is  the  material  in  the  state  lying  between 


394     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

the  Old  Dominion  and  the  commonwealth  that  had  a  philoso 
pher  for  godfather.  The  North  Carolinian  is,  and  has  always 
been,  the  typical  Southern  democrat.  If  he  has  not  progressed 
rapidly,  it  is  not  because  he  has  been  unwilling  to  give  up  his 
traditions,  though  he  has  them,  but  because  he  has  always  been 
more  or  less  hampered  by  physical  difficulties,  and  more  or  less 
cast  in  the  shade  by  his  greater  neighbors.  He  has  ever  been 
unpretending,  but  his  virtues  have  been  many  and  solid.  He 
has  had  his  history  miswritten,  but  instead  of  uttering  bitter 
complaints  has  set  to  work  to  rewrite  it.  He  has  labored  in- 
defatigably,  although  with  small  success  as  yet,  to  obtain  a  good 
system  of  public  instruction,  seeing  that  large  portions  of  his 
state  would  without  this  remain  unexploited  for  generations. 
He  is  still  backward  in  many  respects,  and  still  has  to  bide 
taunts  about  not  having  produced  many  great  men,  about  smell 
ing  of  turpentine,  and  about  allowing  the  practice  of  "  dipping  " 
to  continue  within  his  borders.  But  like  the  patient,  thorough 
going  democrat  he  is,  he  takes  it  all  good-naturedly,  and  has 
determined  not  to  be  last  in  the  race  of  progress  that  he  is 
running  with  his  neighbors,  though  he  does  at  times  stop  to 
listen,  open-mouthed,  to  a  quack  proclaiming  the  virtues  of 
some  political  nostrum. 

The  South  Carolinian  has  always  arrogated  to  himself  the 
name  "  Carolinian,"  and  he  has  never  been  on  very  familiar 
terms  with  his  northern  neighbor.  His  feeling  for  his  southern 
neighbor,  the  Georgian,  is  also  one  of  mere  tolerance,  for  the 
latter  has  long  been  called  the  Southern  Yankee,  and  fairly  de 
serves  the  appellation.  He  has  much  of  the  shrewdness  and 
push  that  mark  the  typical  "  Down-Easter,"  and  he  has  a  con 
siderable  share  of  that  worthy's  moral  earnestness.  In  addition 
he  has  a  good  deal  of  the  Virginian's  geniality  and  love  of  com 
fort,  of  the  North  Carolinian's  unpretending  democracy,  and  of 
the  South  Carolinian's  tendency  to  exhibitions  of  fiery  temper. 


WILLIAM    PETERFIELD   TRENT  395 

But  over  and  above  everything  else  he  has  an  honest  and 
hearty  and  not  unfounded  pride  in  Georgia,  and  a  sort  of  ma 
sonic  affiliation  with  every  person,  animal,  institution,  custom  — 
in  short,  thing — that  can  be  called  Georgian.  He  may  not 
always  stand  for  culture,  but  he  does  always  stand  for  patriot 
ism,  state  and  national.  He  loves  success,  strength,  straight 
forwardness,  and  the  solid  virtues  generally,  —  neither  is  he 
averse  to  the  showy  ones,  —  but  above  all  he  loves  virtue  in 
action.  Though  possessed  of  a  strong,  clear  intellect,  he  is  more 
particularly  a  man  of  five  senses,  of  which  he  makes  as  good 
use  as  he  can.  He  may  not  always  taste  the  sweetness  or  see 
the  light  of  the  highest  civilization,  but  he  has  a  good  healthy 
appetite  for  life.  In  fine,  the  Georgian  is  the  Southerner  of  all 
others  who  comes  nearest  to  being  a  normal  American.  There 
are,  to  be  sure,  varieties  of  Georgians,  and  different  phases  of 
civilization  are  represented  in  different  sections  of  the  state,  but 
the  features  of  character  that  make  for  uniformity  are  more 
numerous  and  important  than  those  that  make  for  divergence. 
The  various  elements  that  compose  the  population  —  original 
settlers,  incomers  from  Virginia  and  the  two  Carolinas  —  seem 
to  have  been  fused,  save  perhaps  on  the  coast  about  Savannah, 
rather  than  to  have  preserved  their  individuality,  and  the  result 
is  the  typical  Georgian,  energetic,  shrewd,  thrifty,  brave,  reli 
gious,  patriotic,  tending  in  the  extremes  of  society  to  become 
narrow  and  hard,  or  self-assertive  and  pushing. 

The  Floridian  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  Alabamian  on  the 
other,  may  be  fairly  described  as  modified  Georgians.  Florida, 
being  a  comparatively  new  state,  settled  under  great  difficulties 
and  by  various  stocks,  has  not  until  recent  years  played  any 
great  part  in  Southern  history,  and  even  now  represents  little 
that  is  suggestive  of  an  indigenous  civilization.  This  is  not  true 
of  Alabama,  save  of  the  mineral  region  in  the  northern  part  of 
the  state ;  but  the  Alabamian,  while  a  distinct  personality,  has 


396     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

never  impressed  himself  upon  the  South  as  his  neighbors  on 
the  Atlantic  coast  have  done.  He  seems  to  hold  partly  by  the 
Georgian  and  partly  by  the  Virginian  (with  whom  he  is  often 
connected  by  ties  of  blood),  and  has  many  of  the  best  qualities 
of  both.  He  is  either  a  "  limbered-up  "  Virginian  or  a  mellowed 
Georgian.  He  is  also  a  much  less  strenuous  type  of  man  than 
his  neighbor  to  the  west  of  him,  although  in  their  dates  of 
settlement  and  in  their  physiographical  features  the  two  states 
do  not  present  striking  points  of  difference,  As  for  the  Missis- 
sippian,  he  too  possesses  well-defined  but  mixed  characteristics. 
He  seems  to  hold  by  the  South  Carolinian  on  the  one  hand, 
and  by  the  Tennesseean  on  the  other,  which  is  another  way  of 
saying  that  he  is  a  Southwesterner  whose  natural  democratic 
proclivities  have  been  somewhat  modified  by  institutions  and 
customs  of  an  aristocratic  cast.  On  his  large  plantation,  amid 
his  hundreds  of  slaves,  it  was  a  matter  of  course  that  he  should 
develop  some  of  the  South  Carolinian's  masterful  traits,  while 
his  position  as  a  frontiersman  and  pioneer  necessarily  gave  him 
a  basis  of  character  not  dissimilar  to  that  of  the  hardy  settler 
on  the  Watauga  or  the  Cumberland.  To  understand  the  Mis- 
sissippian,  then,  or  indeed  any  Southwesterner  as  far  as  the 
Rio  Grande,  we  must  know  something  about  the  Tennesseean. 
This  stalwart  citizen  of  a  state  which  has  already  played  an 
important  part  in  our  history,  and  which  from  its  position  and 
resources  ought  to  play  a  still  more  important  part  in  the  future, 
naturally  holds  by  the  North  Carolinian  in  many  of  his  charac 
teristics.  He  can  generally  point  to  Scotch-Irish  ancestors  from 
whom  he  has  inherited  the  love  of  independence  and  the  sturdy 
democratic  virtues  that  characterize  the  people  of  the  mountain 
sections  of  the  states  on  his  eastern  border,  but  he  owes  to 
these  ancestors  something  that  differentiates  him  from  his  kins- 
people  east  of  the  Alleghenies.  The  latter  have  been  somewhat 
abashed,  somewhat  kept  in  check,  by  their  contact  with  the 


WILLIAM   PETERFIELD   TRENT  397 

civilization  of  the  tidewater,  but  he  wears  upon  his  forehead, 
whether  he  dwell  on  hill  or  plain,  that  "  freedom  of  the  moun 
taineer  "  of  which  Wordsworth  sang.  His  fathers,  whether  they 
owned  slaves  or  not,  never  ceased  to  be  democrats,  and  so  he 
is  a  democrat  through  and  through,  of  a  less  unpretending  type 
than  the  North  Carolinian.  Through  the  valor  and  the  exer 
tions  of  those  fathers  he  has  a  wide  and  fair  domain  in  which 
to  choose  his  dwelling  place,  but  wrhether  he  has  his  abode 
among  the  mineral  treasures  of  his  mountains,  or  in  the  blue- 
grass  plains,  or  amid  the  low-lying  fields  that  whiten  with  the 
cotton  boll,  he  is  always  and  everywhere  the  open-handed,  self- 
reliant,  easily  excited  son  of  equality  and  freedom  that  Welling 
ton's  regulars  went  down  before  in  the  fatal  trenches  of  New 
Orleans.  In  fact,  the  Tennesseean  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  a 
Southerner  at  all.  The  basis  of  his  character  is  Western,  and 
though  his  sympathies  were  divided  in  the  Civil  War,  and 
though  he  helps  to  make  up  the  "  Solid  South,"  he  has  really 
as  little  affiliation  with  the  Southerners  of  the  Atlantic  coast  as 
Andrew  Jackson  had  with  John  C.  Calhoun.  He  has  not,  in 
deed,  the  murderous  intentions  of  his  great  hero  and  idol,  but 
when  he  counts  himself  as  being  of  the  Southern  people  he 
ought  to  change  his  preposition  and  say  that  he  is  with  them. 

The  other  Southwestern  states  naturally  have  more  distinc 
tively  Southern  features  than  Tennessee,  but  we  need  hardly 
go  into  particulars.  Arkansas  and  Texas  are  as  yet  too  new  to 
have  stood  for  much  in  the  history  of  Southern  culture,  and 
save  in  certain  localities  they  are  still  in  the  transition  stage 
common  to  pioneer  states.  When  their  various  strains  of  pop 
ulation  have  been  fused  and  their  immense  territory  has  been 
really  settled,  the  emerging  civilization  will  be  almost  inevitably 
Western  in  tone.  It  will  not  be  Western  in  exactly  the  same 
way  that  the  civilization  of  Wisconsin  and  Illinois  is  Western, 
but  then  the  civilization  of  the  latter  states  differs  from  that  of 


398     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Nebraska,  or  Colorado,  or  the  Dakotas.  Yet  it  will  most  assur 
edly  not  be  Southern  in  any  true  sense  of  the  term,  for  in  this 
country  the  meridians  of  longitude  have  on  the  whole  prevailed 
over  the  parallels  of  latitude. 

In  Louisiana  a  Southern  civilization  has  been  developed  in 
the  lower  part  of  the  state,  and  will  probably  always  dominate 
it.  The  Louisianian  of  this  section  is  quite  different  from  his 
Western  compatriots  of  the  towns  on  the  Texas  and  Arkansas 
borders,  and  he  possibly  comes  nearer  to  the  foreigner's  idea  of 
what  a  Southerner  is  than  any  other  of  the  types  that  have 
been  described.  Perhaps  this  is  because  most  foreigners  get 
their  ideas  of  the  South  from  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  Be  this 
as  it  may,  the  typical  Louisianian  seems  to  understand  the  dolce 
far  niente  better  than  the  Virginian  ;  he  keeps  social  life  going 
with  less  trouble  than  the  South  Carolinian ;  he  would  never 
think  of  bustling  and  working  like  a  Georgian ;  he  would  die  of 
the  blues  if  he  had  to  exchange  the  picturesque  contrasts  of  his 
chief  city  and  the  lower  half  of  his  state  with  the  gray-colored 
uniformity  of  the  life  that  the  North  Carolinian  has  led  for 
generations.  But  if  the  Louisianian  has  enjoyed  life,  he  has 
not  had  the  wisdom  to  develop  all  portions  of  his  interesting 
commonwealth,  and  he  has  never  taken  a  commanding  position 
among  his  Southern  brethren.  With  him,  however,  our  modest 
efforts  at  portraiture  must  cease. 


POETS 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

[Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
in  1830.  His  family  belonged  to  the  wealthy  and  aristocratic  circle  of 
that  city.  After  graduat 
ing  from  Charleston  Col 
lege,  Hayne  studied  law, 
but  his  love  of  literature 
proved  too  strong  for  the 
practice  of  his  profession. 
In  1857  he  became  editor 
of  RusseWs  Magazine, 
which  he  made  a  decided 
success.  Before  the  war 
Hayne  had  published  three 
volumes  of  poetry,  made 
up  chiefly  of  pieces  which 
he  had  contributed  to  va 
rious  periodicals.  At  the 
outbreak  of  hostilities  he 
became  an  aide  on  Gover 
nor  Pickens's  staff,  but 

after  a   brief   service    he  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

was  forced    to   resign   on 

account  of  ill  health.  Finding  himself  impoverished  at  the  close 
of  the  war,  he  moved  to  the  pine  barrens  of  Georgia  and  about 
eighteen  miles  from  Augusta  built  a  very  plain  cottage,  which  he 
called  tf  Copse  Hill."  Here  he  struggled  bravely  with  poverty  as 
best  he  could,  through  his  contributions  of  poetry  and  other  kinds 
of  writing  to  the  magazines.  Gradually  his  genius  gained  recogni 
tion  throughout  the  country  at  large  and  he  came  to  have  the  title 

399 


400     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

of  "the  Laureate  of  the  South."  In  1882  a  complete  edition  of  his 
poems  was  published  in  Boston.  Shortly  after  the  publication  of  this 
volume,  Hayne's  health  began  to  give  way,  and  he  died  in  1886.] 

A  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUTH  WINDS l 

O  fresh,  how  fresh  and  fair 

Through  the  crystal  gulfs  of  air, 
The  fairy  South  Wind  floateth  on  her  subtle  wings  of  balm ! 

And  the  green  earth  lapped  in  bliss, 

To  the  magic  of  her  kiss 
Seems  yearning  upward  fondly  through  the  golden-crested  calm  ! 

From  the  distant  Tropic  strand, 

Where  the  billows,  bright  and  bland, 
Go  creeping,  curling  round  the  palms  with  sweet,  faint  undertune, 

From  its  fields  of  purpling  flowers 

Still  wet  with  fragrant  showers, 
The  happy  South  Wind  lingering  sweeps  the  royal  blooms  of  June. 

All  heavenly  fancies  rise 

On  the  perfume  of  her  sighs, 
Which  steep  the  inmost  spirit  in  a  languor  rare  and  fine, 

And  a  peace  more  pure  than  sleep's 

Unto  dim,  half-conscious  deeps, 
Transports  me,  lulled  and  dreaming,  on  its  twilight  tides  divine. 

Those  dreams  !  ah  me  !  the  splendor, 

So  mystical  and  tender, 
Wherewith  like  soft  heat-lightnings  they  gird  their  meaning  round, 

And  those  waters,  calling,  calling, 

With  a  nameless  charm  enthralling, 
Like  the  ghost  of  music  melting  on  a  rainbow  spray  of  sound ! 

1  The  selections  from  Hayne  are  reprinted  by  permission  of  the  holder  of  the 
copyright,  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Co. 


PAUL   HAMILTON    HAYNE  401 

Touch,  touch  me  not,  nor  wake  me, 

Lest  grosser  thoughts  o'ertake  me, 
From  earth  receding  faintly  with  her  dreary  din  and  jars,  — 

What  viewless  arms  caress  me  ? 

What  whispered  voices  bless  me, 

With  welcomes  dropping  dewlike  from  the  weird  and  wondrous 
stars? 

Alas !  dim,  dim,  and  dimmer 

Grows  the  preternatural  glimmer 

Of  that  trance  the  South  Wind  brought  me  on  her  subtle  wings  of 
balm, 

For  behold  !  its  spirit  flieth, 

And  its  fairy  murmur  dieth, 
And  the  silence  closing  round  me  is  a  dull  and  soulless  calm ! 


ASPECTS  OF  THE   PINES 

Tall,  somber,  grim,  against  the  morning  sky 
They  rise,  scarce  touched  by  melancholy  airs, 

Which  stir  the  fadeless  foliage  dreamfully, 
As  if  from  realms  of  mystical  despairs. 

Tall,  somber,  grim,  they  stand  with  dusky  gleams 
Brightening  to  gold  within  the  woodland's  core, 

Beneath  the  gracious  noontide's  tranquil  beams  — 
But  the  weird  wrinds  of  morning  sigh  no  more. 

A  stillness,  strange,  divine,  ineffable, 

Broods  round  and  o'er  them  in  the  wind's  surcease, 
And  on  each  tinted  copse  and  shimmering  dell 

Rests  the  mute  rapture  of  deep-hearted  peace. 


402     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Last,  sunset  comes  —  the  solemn  joy  and  might 

Borne  from  the  West  when  cloudless  day  declines  — 

Low,  flutelike  breezes  sweep  the  waves  of  light, 
And  lifting  dark  green  tresses  of  the  pines, 

Till  every  lock  is  luminous  —  gently  float, 
Fraught  with  hale  odors  up  the  heavens  afar 

To  faint  when  twilight  on  her  virginal  throat 
Wears  for  a  gem  the  tremulous  vesper  star. 


MACDONALD'S   RAID  —  1780 

I  remember  it  well ;  't  was  a  morn  dull  and  gray, 

And  the  legion  lay  idle  and  listless  that  day, 

A  thin  drizzle  of  rain  piercing  chill  to  the  soul, 

And  with  not  a  spare  bumper  to  brighten  the  bowl, 

When  Macdonald  arose,  and  unsheathing  his  blade, 

Cried,  "  Who  '11  back  me,  brave  comrades  ?    I'm  hot  for  a  raid. 

Let  the  carbines  be  loaded,  the  war  harness  ring, 

Then  swift  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with  the  King !  " 

We  leaped  up  at  his  summons,  all  eager  and  bright, 

To  our  finger  tips  thrilling  to  join  him  in  fight ; 

Yet  he  chose  from  our  numbers  four  men  and  no  more. 

"  Stalwart  brothers,"  quoth  he,  "  you  '11  be  strong  as  fourscore, 

If  you  follow  me  fast  wheresoever  I  lead, 

With  keen  sword  and  true  pistol,  stanch  heart  and  bold  steed. 

Let  the  weapons  be  loaded,  the  bridle  bits  ring, 

Then  swift  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with  the  King ! " 

In  a  trice  we  were  mounted ;  Macdonald's  tall  form 
Seated  firm  in  the  saddle,  his  face  like  a  storm 
When  the  clouds  on  Ben  Lomond  hang  heavy  and  stark, 
And  the  red  veins  of  lightning  pulse  hot  through  the  dark ; 


PAUL   HAMILTON   HAYNE  403 

His  left  hand  on  his  sword  belt,  his  right  lifted  free, 

With  a  prick  from  the  spurred  heel,  a  touch  from  the  knee, 

His  lithe  Arab  was  off  like  an  eagle  on  wing  — 

"  Ha !  death,  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with  the  King !  " 

'T.was  three  leagues  to  the  town,  where,  in  insolent  pride 

Of  their  disciplined  numbers,  their  works  strong  and  wide, 

The  big  Britons,  oblivious  of  warfare  and  arms, 

A  soft  dolce  were  wrapped  in,  not  dreaming  of  harms, 

When  fierce  yells,  as  if  borne  on  some  fiend-ridden  rout, 

With  strange  cheer  after  cheer,  are  heard  echoing  without, 

Over  which,  like  the  blast  of  ten  trumpeters,  ring, 

"  Death,  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with  the  King !  " 

Such  a  tumult  we  raised  with  steel,  hoof-stroke,  and  shout, 

That  the  foemen  made  straight  for  their  inmost  redoubt, 

And  therein,  with  pale  lips  and  cowed  spirits,  quoth  they, 

"  Lord,  the  whole  rebel  army  assaults  us  to-day. 

Are  the  works,  think  you,  strong  ?   God  of  heaven,  what  a  din  ! 

'T  is  the  front  wall  besieged  —  have  the  rebels  rushed  in  ? 

It  must  be  ;  for,  hark  !  hark  to  that  jubilant  ring 

Of  '  Death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with  the  King ! ' " 

Meanwhile,  through  the  town  like  whirlwind  we  sped, 

And  ere  long  be  assured  that  our  broadswords  were  red ; 

And  the  ground  here  and  there  by  an  ominous  stain 

Showed  how  the  stark  soldier  beside  it  was  slain  : 

A  fat  sergeant-major,  who  yawed  like  a  goose, 

With  his  waddling  bowlegs,  and  his  trappings  all  loose, 

By  one  back-handed  blow  the  Macdonald  cuts  down, 

To  the  shoulder-blade,  cleaving  him  sheer  through  the  crown, 

And  the  last  words  that  greet  his  dim  consciousness  ring 

With  "  Death,  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with  the  King  !  " 


404     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Having  cleared  all  the  streets,  not  an  enemy  left 
Whose  heart  was  unpierced,  or  whose  headpiece  uncleft, 
What  should  we  do  next,  but  —  as  careless  and  calm 
As  if  we  were  scenting  a  summer  morn's  balm 
'Mid  a  land  of  pure  peace  —  just  serenely  drop  down 
On  a  few  constant  friends  who  still  stopped  in  the  town. 
What  a  welcome  they  gave  us !    One  dear  little  thing, 
As  I  kissed  her  sweet  lips,  did  I  dream  of  the  King  ?  — 


Of  the  King  or  his  minions  ?    No  ;  war  and  its  scars 

Seemed  as  distant  just  then  as  the  fierce  front  of  Mars 

From  a  love-girdled  earth  ;  but,  alack  !  on  our  bliss, 

On  the  close  clasp  of  arms  and  kiss  showering  on  kiss, 

Broke  the  rude  bruit  of  battle,  the  rush  thick  and  fast 

Of  the  Britons  made  'ware  of  our  rash  ruse  at  last ; 

So  we  haste  to  our  coursers,  yet  flying,  we  fling 

The  old  watchwords  abroad,  "  Down  with  Redcoats  and  King  !  " 

As  we  scampered  pell-mell  o'er  the  hard-beaten  track 
We  had  traversed  that  morn,  we  glanced  momently  back, 
And  beheld  their  long  earthworks  all  compassed  in  flame ; 
With  a  vile  plunge  and  hiss  the  huge  musket  balls  came, 
And  the  soil  was  plowed  up,  and  the  space  'twixt  the  trees 
Seemed  to  hum  with  the  war  song  of  Brobdingnag  bees ; 
Yet  above  them,  beyond  them,  victoriously  ring 
The  shouts,  "  Death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with  the  King  !  " 


Ah  I  that  was  a  feat,  lads,  to  boast  of !    What  men 
Like  you  weaklings  to-day  had  durst  cope  with  us  then  ? 
Though  I  say  it  who  should  not,  I  am  ready  to  vow 
I'd  o'ermatch  a  half  score  of  your  fops  even  now  — 


PAUL   HAMILTON    HAYNE  405 

The  poor  puny  prigs,  mincing  up,  mincing  down, 
Through  the  whole  wasted  day  the  thronged  streets  of  the  town : 
Why,  their  dainty  white  necks  't  were  but  pastime  to  wring  — 
Ay !  my  muscles  are  firm  still ;  /  fought  'gainst  the  King  ! 

Dare  you  doubt  it  ?  well,  give  me  the  weightiest  of  all 
The  sheathed  sabers  that  hang  there,  uplooped  on  the  wall ; 
Hurl  the  scabbard  aside ;  yield  the  blade  to  my  clasp ; 
Do  you  see,  with  one  hand  how  I  poise  it  and  grasp 
The  rough  iron-bound  hilt  ?    With  this  long  hissing  sweep 
I  have  smitten  full  many  a  foeman  with  sleep  — 
That  forlorn,  final  sleep  !    God  !    what  memories  cling 
To  those  gallant  old  times  when  we  fought  'gainst  the  King. 


THE  PINE'S  MYSTERY 

Listen  !  the  somber  foliage  of  the  Pine 
A  swart  Gitana  of  the  woodland  trees, 

In  answering  what  we  may  but  half  divine 
To  those  soft  whispers  of  the  twilight  breeze ! 

Passion  and  mystery  murmur  through  the  leaves, 
Passion  and  mystery,  touched  by  deathless  pain, 

Whose  monotone  of  long,  low  anguish  grieves^ 
For  something  lost  that  shall  not  live  again ! 


THE  WTILL  AND  THE  WING 

To  have  the  will  to  soar,  but  not  the  wings, 
Eyes  fixed  forever  on  a  starry  height, 

Whence  stately  shapes  of  grand  imaginings 
Flash  down  the  splendors  of  imperial  light ; 


406     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

And  yet  to  lack  the  charm  that  makes  them  ours, 
The  obedient  vassals  of  that  conquering  spell, 

Whose  omnipresent  and  ethereal  powers 
Encircle  Heaven,  nor  fear  to  enter  Hell ; 


COPSE  HILL 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne's  unpretentious  home  after  the  war,  situated 
about  eighteen  miles  from  Augusta,  Georgia 


This  is  the  doom  of  Tantalus  —  the  thirst 
For  beauty's  balmy  fount  to  quench  the  fires 

Of  the  wild  passion  that  our  souls  have  nurst 
In  hopeless  promptings  —  unfulfilled  desires. 


Yet  would  I  rather  in  the  outward  state 
Of  Song's  immortal  temple  lay  me  down, 

A  beggar  basking  by  that  radiant  gate, 

Than  bend  beneath  the  haughtiest  empire's  crown ! 


PAUL   HAMILTON    HAYNE  407 

For  sometimes,  through  the  bars,  my  ravished  eyes 
Have  caught  brief  glimpses  of  a  life  divine, 

And  seen  afar,  mysterious  rapture  rise 

Beyond  the  veil  that  guards  the  inmost  shrine. 


THE  AXE  AND  PINE 

All  day,  on  bole  and  limb  the  axes  ring, 

And  every  stroke  upon  my  startled  brain 

Falls  with  the  power  of  sympathetic  pain ; 

I  shrink  to  view  each  glorious  forest  king 

Descend  to  earth,  a  wan,  discrowne'd  thing. 

Ah,  Heaven  !  beside  these  foliaged  giants  slain, 

How  small  the  human  dwarfs,  whose  lust  for  gain 

Hath  edged  their  brutal  steel  to  smite  and  sting ! 

Hark  !  to  those  long-drawn  murmurings,  strange  and  drear  ! 

The  wail  of  Dryads  in  their  last  distress ; 

O'er  ruined  haunts  and  ravished  loveliness 

Still  tower  those  brawny  arms ;  tones  coarsely  loud 

Rise  still  beyond  the  greenery's  waning  cloud, 

While  falls  the  insatiate  steel,  sharp,  cold,  and  sheer ! 


MIDSUMMER  IN  THE  SOUTH 

I  love  Queen  August's  stately  sway, 

And  all  her  fragrant  south  winds  say, 

With  vague,  mysterious  meanings  fraught, 

Of  unimaginable  thought ; 

Those  winds,  'mid  change  of  gloom  and  gleam, 

Seem  wandering  thro'  a  golden  dream  — 

The  rare  midsummer  dream  that  lies 

In  humid  depths  of  nature's  eyes, 

Weighing  her  languid  forehead  down 


408     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

Beneath  a  fair  but  fiery  crown : 

Its  witchery  broods  o'er  earth  and  skies, 

Fills  with  divine  amenities 

The  bland,  blue  spaces  of  the  air, 

And  smiles  with  looks  of  drowsy  cheer 

'Mid  hollows  of  the  brown-hued  hills ; 

And  oft,  in  tongues  of  tinkling  rills, 

A  softer,  homelier  utterance  finds 

Than  that  which  haunts  the  lingering  winds  ! 

I  love  midsummer's  azure  deep, 

Whereon  the  huge  white  clouds,  asleep, 

Scarce  move  through  lengths  of  tranced  hours ; 

Some,  raised  in  forms  of  giant  towers  — 

Dumb  Babels,  with  ethereal  stairs 

Scaling  the  vast  height  —  unawares 

What  mocking  spirit,  ether-born, 

Hath  built  those  transient  spires  in  scorn, 

And  reared  towards  the  topmost  sky 

Their  unsubstantial  fantasy ! 

Some  stretched  in  tenuous  arcs  of  light 

Athwart  the  airy  infinite, 

Far  glittering  up  yon  fervid  dome, 

And  lapped  by  cloudland's  misty  foam, 

Whose  wreaths  of  fine  sun-smitten  spray 

Melt  in  a  burning  haze  away ; 

Some  throned  in  heaven's  serenest  smiles, 

Pure-hued,  and  calm  as  fairy  isles, 

Girt  by  the  tides  of  soundless  seas  — 

The  heavens'  benign  Hesperides. 

I  love  midsummer  uplands,  free 
To  the  bold  raids  of  breeze  and  bee, 
Where,  nested  warm  in  yellowing  grass, 


PAUL   HAMILTON    HAYNE  409 

I  hear  the  swift-winged  partridge  pass. 
With  whir  and  boom  of  gusty  flight, 
Across  the  broad  heath's  treeless  height : 
Or,  just  where,  elbow-poised,  I  lift 
Above  the  wild  flower's  careless  drift 
My  half-closed  eyes,  I  see  and  hear 
The  blithe  field  sparrow  twittering  clear 
Quick  ditties  to  his  tiny  love ; 
While,  from  afar,  the  timid  dove, 
With  faint,  voluptuous  murmur,  wakes 
The  silence  of  the  pastoral  brakes. 

I  love  midsummer  sunsets,  rolled 
Down  the  rich  west  in  waves  of  gold, 
With  blazing  crests  of  billowy  fire. 
But  when  those  crimson  floods  retire, 
In  noiseless  ebb,  slowr-surging,  grand, 
By  pensive  twilight's  flickering  strand, 
In  gentler  mood  I  love  to  mark 
The  slow  gradations  of  the  dark ; 
Till,  lo !  from  Orient's  mists  withdrawn, 
Hail !  to  the  moon's  resplendent  dawn  ; 
On  dusky  vale  and  haunted  plain 
Her  effluence  falls  like  balmy  rain  ; 
Gaunt  gulfs  of  shadow  own  her  might ; 
She  bathes  the  rescued  world  in  light, 
So  that,  albeit  my  summer's  day 
Erewhile  did  breathe  its  life  away, 
Methinks,  whate'er  its  hours  had  won 
Of  beauty,  born  from  shade  and  sun, 
Hath  not  perchance  so  wholly  died, 
But  o'er  the  moonlight's  silver)-  tide 
Comes  back,  sublimed  and  purified  1 


410     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 


IRWIN  RUSSELL 

[Irwin  Russell  was  born  in   Port  Gibson,   Mississippi,  in   1853. 
After  graduating  from  the  St.  Louis  University  in  1869  he  chose 

the  profession  of  law,  but  the 
young  lawyer  never  had  a  case 
in  court  because  his  interests 
were  turning  steadily  to  litera 
ture.  His  first  contribution  to 
Scribner's  Monthly  appeared 
in  1876.  During  the  yellow- 
fever  epidemic  of  1878  he  lost 
his  father,  and,  thrown  on  his 
own  resources,  he  started  to 
New  York,  intending  to  make 
a  livelihood  through  writing. 
Soon  after  arriving  there  he 
was  stricken  with  a  dangerous 
fever.  When  he  recovered  he 
shipped  on  a  vessel  for  New 
Orleans  and  worked  his  pas 
sage  by  coal  heaving.  In  New 
IRWIN  RUSSELL  Orleans  he  spent  several  months 

•  of  poverty  and  distress,  attempt 
ing  to  earn  a  living  by  writing  for  newspapers.  His  life  of  promise 
was  ended  in  1879  under  pitiable  circumstances.  Nine  years  later 
his  poems  were  collected  into  a  small  volume.] 


NEBUCHADNEZZAR  * 

You,  Nebuchadnezzah,  whoa,  sah ! 
Whar  is  you  tryin'  to  go,  sah  ? 
I'd  nab  you  fur  to  know,  sah, 
Ps  a-holdin'  ob  de  lines. 


1  The  selections  from  Russell  are  reprinted  through  the  kind  permission  of 
the  holder  of  the  copyright,  the  Century  Company. 


IRWIN    RUSSELL  411 

You  better  stop  dat  prancin' ; 
You  's  pow'ful  fond  ob  dancin', 
But  I  '11  bet  my  yeah  's  advancin' 
Dat  I  '11  cure  you  ob  yo'  shines. 

Look  heah,  mule  !  Better  min'  out ; 
Fus'  t'ing  you  know  you  '11  fin'  out 
How  quick  I  '11  wear  dis  line  out 

On  yo'  ugly,  stubbo'n  back. 
You  need  n't  try  to  steal  up 
An'  lif '  dat  precious  heel  up ; 
You  's  got  to  plow  dis  fiel'  up  ; 

You  has,  sah,  fur  a  fac'. 

Dar,  dafs  de  way  to  do  it ! 
He  's  comin'  right  down  to  it ; 
Jes  watch  him  plowin'  troo  it ! 

Dis  nigger  ain't  no  fool. 
Some  folks  dey  would  'a'  beat  him ; 
Now,  dat  would  only  heat  him  — 
I  know  jes  how  to  treat  him : 

You  mus'  reason  wid  a  mule. 

He  minds  me  like  a  nigger. 

If  he  wuz  only  bigger 

He  'd  fotch  a  mighty  figger. 

He  would,  I  tell  you  !  Yes,  sah  ! 
See  how  he  keeps  a-clickin' ! 
He  's  as  gentle  as  a  chickin, 
An'  nebber  thinks  o'kickin'  — 
Whoa  dar  !  Nebuchadnezzah  ! 


412     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Is  dis  heah  me,  or  not  me  ? 
Or  is  de  debbil  got  me  ? 
Wuz  dat  a  cannon  shot  me  ? 

Hab  I  laid  heah  more  'n  a  week  ? 
Dat  mule  do  kick  amazin' ! 
De  beast  wuz  sp'iled  in  raisin'  — 
But  now  I  'spect  he  's  grazin' 

On  de  oder  side  de  creek. 


SELLING  A  DOG 

H'yar,  Pot-liquor !  What  you  at  ?  You  heah  me  callin'  you  ? 
H'yar,  sah !  Come  an'  tell  dis  little  gemmen  howdy-do  ! 
Dar,  sah,  ain't  dat  puppy,  jes  as  fat  as  he  kin  roll  ? 
Maybe  you  won't  b'liebe  it,  but  he  's  only  six  mon's  ol' ! 


'Coon  dog  ?  Lord  !  young  marster,  he  's  jes  at  'em  all  de  while 

/  b'liebe  dat  he  kin  smell  a  'coon  fur  half  a  mile. 

I  don'  like  to  sell  him,  fur  he  's  wuf  his  weight  in  goP ; 

If  you  did  n't  want  him,  sah,  he  nebber  should  be  sol'. 


If  you  takes  him  off  wid  you,  I  '11  feel  like  I  wuz  lost. 

He  's  de  bes'  young  fightin'  dog  I  ebber  come  acrost. 

Jes  look  at  dem  eyes,  young  marster ;  what  a  sabbage  face !  — 

He  won't  let  no  stranger  nigger  come  about  de  place. 

You  know  Henry  Wilson's  Bob,  dat  whipped  your  fader's  Dan  ? 
Pot-liquor  jes  chucked  dat  dog  so  bad  he  could  n't  stan' ! 
Well,  sah,  if  you  wants  him,  now  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do,  — 
You  kin  hab  him  fur  a  dollar,  seein  's  how  it 's  you. 


IRWIN   RUSSELL  413 

Now,  Marster  Will,  you  knows  it  —  he  's  wuf  mo  'n  dat,  a  heap  ; 
R'al'y,  I's  a-doin'  wrong  to  let  him  go  so  cheap. 
Don't  you  tell  nobody,  now,  what  wuz  de  price  you  paid  — 
My  ol'  'oman  's  gwine  to  gib  me  fits,  sah,  I's  afraid  ! 


T'anks  you,  sah  !   Good-mornin',  sah  !   You  tell  yo'  ma,  fur  me, 

I  has  got  de  fines'  turkeys  dat  she  ebber  see ; 

Dey  is  jes  as  good  as  any  pusson  ebber  eat. 

If  she  wants  a  gobbler,  let  her  sen'  to  Uncle  Pete. 


Dar !  I's  done  got  rid  ob  dat  ar  wretched  dog  at  las' ! 
Drownin'  time  wuz  comin'  fur  him  mighty  precious  fas' ! 
Sol'  him  fur  a  dollar  —  Well !  An'  goodness  knows  de  pup 
Is  n't  wuf  de  powder  it  'd  take  to  blow  him  up ! 


DAT  PETER 

I  'se  been  a-watchin'  people  an'  deir  doings  all  my  life, 

An'  sometimes  I  obsarves  to  Sophonisby  —  dat 's  my  wife  — 

Dat  nuffin'  seldom  happens  what  I  does  n't  'spect  to  see : 

But  Peter, 

Dat  Peter ! 

He  gits  away  wid  me. 


You  see  he  's  been  to  Oakland,  an'  his  larnin'  is  profound ; 
I  heered  him  sayin'  yes'day  dat  the  yearth  kep'  turnin'  round ! 
Dat  'pears  to  me  ridiculous  —  but  I  nebber  wuz  to  school  — 

And  Peter, 

Dat  Peter ! 

He  'lows  dat  I  'se  a  fool. 


414     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Well,  mebbe  so  ;  I  mout  be,  but  I  does  n't  think  it 's  true  ; 
I  aint  so  wise  as  Peter,  but  I  knows  a  ting  or  two : 
Ef  I  kain't  run  as  fast  as  some,  I  manages  to  crawl  — 

But  Peter, 

Dat  Peter ! 

He  thinks  he  knows  it  all. 


He  wears  a  suit  ob  store-clo'es,  an'  a  fine  fibe  dollar  hat ! 
Who  eber  heard  de  like  afore  ob  sich  gwine  on  as  dat  ? 
He  iles  his  har,  he  do ;  an'  goes  a-sparkin'  eb'ry  night ; 

Why  Peter, 

Dat  Peter ! 

I  guess  he  thinks  he  's  white. 

I  really  think  ef  Peter  would  rent  a  leetle  patch  ob  land, 
An'  settle  down  to  crappin',  dat  he  'd  hold  a  better  hand ; 
De  debbil's  gwine  to  set  him  back  afore  his  game  is  done ; 

But  Peter, 

Dat  Peter ! 

He  say  he  's  twenty-one. 

Well,  let  de  nigger  slide  —  I  could  say  suffin'  ef  I  mout, 

But  I  has  oder  matters  to  be  projeckin'  about. 

I  'se  jubious  how  he  '11  come  out  —  hab  to  wait  a  while  an'  see. 

But  Peter, 

Dat  Peter ! 

He  's  most  too  much  for  me. 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


415 


SIDNEY  LANIER 

[Sidney  Lanier  was  born  in  Macon,  Georgia,  in  1 842.  His  ancestors 
had  been  for  generations  musicians.  At  fourteen  he  entered  the 
sophomore  class  of  Oglethorpe  College  at  Midway.  Georgia,  and 
graduated  in  1860.  He  was  at  once  appointed  a  tutor  in  the  col 
lege,  but  the  war  broke  out 
shortly  and  he  joined  the  Con 
federate  army.  He  saw  sendee 
in  Virginia,  and  toward  the 
close  of  the  war  was  put  in 
charge  of  a  blockade-running 
vessel.  His  vessel  was  captured 
in  1864,  and  he  was  confined 
for  five  months  in  Point  Look 
out  prison.  The  exposure  and 
hardships  of  this  experience 
germinated  the  seeds  of  con 
sumption,  against  which  he  had 
to  fight  the  rest  of  his  life  and 
to  which  he  finally  succumbed. 
After  the  war  Lanier  lived  in 
Georgia  and  Alabama,  earning 
a  living  as  teacher,  hotel  clerk, 

and  lawyer.  But  finding  that  his  health  grew  no  better  and  feeling 
that  he  was  wasting  his  genius  in  uncongenial  pursuits,  he  decided 
to  devote  himself  to  literature  and  music.  In  1873  he  went  to  Balti 
more  and  found  employment  as  first  flutist  in  the  Peabody  Symphony 
Orchestra.  In  Baltimore  he  found  musicians,  literary  people,  and 
libraries,  and  his  genius  would  undoubtedly  have  blossomed  rapidly 
had  it  not  been  for  ill  health.  Recurring  attacks  of  his  malady  com 
pelled  him  to  seek  health  in  visits  to  the  mountains  of  North  Carolina 
and  the  mild  climate  of  Florida.  In  1879  he  was  appointed  lecturer 
on  English  literature  at  Johns  Hopkins  University,  a  position  which 
assured  an  income  and  which  was  entirely  congenial.  His  health,  how 
ever,  was  rapidly  failing,  and  finally  the  sufferer  was  obliged  to  quit 
work  and  go  to  the  mountains  of  North  Carolina.  There  in  the  little 
village  of  Lynn  his  brave  fight  closed  in  the  early  autumn  of  1881.] 


SIDNEY  LANIER 


4l6     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

THE  TOURNAMENT 
JOUST  FIRST 

Bright  shone  the  lists,  blue  bent  the  skies, 

And  the  knights  still  hurried  amain 
To  the  tournament  under  the  ladies'  eyes, 

Where  the  j ousters  were  Heart  and  Brain. 

Flourished  the  trumpets  :  entered  Heart, 

A  youth  in  crimson  and  gold. 
Flourished  again  :   Brain  stood  apart, 

Steel-armored,  dark  and  cold. 

Heart's  palfrey  caracoled  gayly  round, 

Heart  tra-li-ra'd  merrily ; 
But  Brain  sat  still,  with  never  a  sound, 

So  cynical-calm  was  he. 

Heart's  helmet-crest  bore  favors  three 

From  his  lady's  hand  caught ; 
While  Brain  wore  a  plumeless  casque ;  not  he 

Or  favor  gave  or  sought. 

The  herald  blew ;  Heart  shot  a  glance 

To  find  his  lady's  eye, 
But  Brain  gazed  straight  ahead  his  lance 

To  aim  more  faithfully. 

They  charged,  they  struck ;  both  fell,  both  bled. 

Brain  rose  again,  ungloved, 
Heart,  dying,  smiled  and  faintly  said, 

"  My  love  to  my  beloved." 


SIDNEY   LANIER  417 

JOUST  SECOND 

A-many  sweet  eyes  wept  and  wept, 

A-many  bosoms  heaved  again ; 
A-many  dainty  dead  hopes  slept 

With  yonder  Heart-knight  prone  o'er  the  plain. 

Yet  stars  will  burn  through  any  mists, 

And  the  ladies'  eyes,  through  rains  of  fate, 

Still  beamed  upon  the  bloody  lists 
And  lit  the  joust  of  Love  and  Hate. 

O  strange !  or  ere  a  trumpet  blew, 

Or  ere  a  challenge-word  was  given, 
A  knight  leapt  down  i'  the  lists ;  none  knew 

Whether  he  sprang  from  earth  or  heaven. 

His  cheek  was  soft  as  a  lily-bud, 

His  gray  eyes  calmed  his  youth's  alarm ; 

Nor  helm  nor  hauberk  nor  even  a  hood 
Had  he  to  shield  his  life  from  harm. 

No  falchion  from  his  baldric  swung, 

He  wore  a  white  rose  in  its  place. 
No  dagger  at  his  girdle  hung, 

But  only  an  olive  branch,  for  grace. 

And,  "  Come,  thou  poor  mistaken  knight," 
Cried  Love,  unarmed,  yet  dauntless  there, 

"  Come  on,  God  pity  thee  !  —  I  fight 

Sans  sword,  sans  shield  ;  yet,  Hate,  beware !  " 


418     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Spurred  furious  Hate ;  he  foamed  at  mouth, 

His  breath  was  hot  upon  the  air, 
His  breath  scorched  souls,  as  a  dry  drought 

Withers  green  trees  and  burns  them  bare. 


Straight  drives  he  at  his  enemy, 

His  hairy  hands  grip  lance  in  rest, 
His  lance  it  gleams  full  bitterly, 

God  !  —  gleams,  true-point,  on  Love's  bare  breast  ! 


Love's  gray  eyes  glow  with  a  heaven-heat, 
Love  lifts  his  hand  in  a  saintly  prayer ; 

Look  !   Hate  hath  fallen  at  his  feet ! 
Look  !  Hate  hath  vanished  in  the  air  ! 


Then  all  the  throng  looked  kind  on  all ; 

Eyes  yearned,  lips  kissed,  dumb  souls  were  freed  j 
Two  magic  maids'  hands  lifted  a  pall 

And  the  dead  knight,  Heart,  sprang  on  his  steed. 


Then  Love  cried,  "  Break  me  his  lance,  each  knight ! 

Ye  shall  fight  for  blood-athirst  Fame  no  more." 
And  the  knights  all  doffed  their  mailed  might 

And  dealt  out  dole  on  dole  to  the  poor. 


Then  dove-lights  sanctified  the  plain, 
And  hawk  and  sparrow  shared  a  nest. 

And  the  great  sea  opened  and  swallowed  Pain, 
And  out  of  this  water-grave  floated  Rest ! 


SIDNEY    LAMER  419 

SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE1 

Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Down  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hurrying  rain,0  to  reach  the  plain. 

Has  run6  the  rapid  and  leapt*"  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accepted  hisrf  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  fled*  from  folly  on  ever)'  side, 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain, 
Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Far  from  the  vallevs  of  Hall. 


All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried,  Abide,  abide ; 

The  willful  water  weeds  held  me  thrall. 
The  laurel,  slow-laving,  turned  my  tide/ 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  win*'  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed,  Abide,  abide, 
Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


1  First  published  in  Scott's  Magazine,  from  which  it  is  here  taken.  Laniers 
later  revisions  are  given  in  footnotes,  and  the  study  of  these  will  show  the  devel 
opment  of  the  poet's  artistic  sense. 

a.  Changed  to  "  I  hurry  amain." 

b.  Changed  to  n  I  run." 

c.  Changed  to  "  leap." 

d.  Changed  to  "  accept  my." 
f.  Changed  to  "  flee.?J 

f.  Changed  to  "  The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide/' 

g.  Changed  to  "  work." 


420     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

High  over  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 

Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning,  with  flickering  meaning  and  sign, 
Said,  Pass  not  so  cold  these  manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  white  quartz  shone,  and  the  smooth  brookstone 

Barred^  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 
And  many  a  metal  lay  sad,  alone,2 
And  the  diamond,  the  garnet,  the  amethyst, 
And  the  crystal  that  prisons  a  purple  mist, 

Showed  lights  like  my  own  from  each  cordial  stone 

In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
Shall  hinder  the  rain  from  attaining  the  plain/ 

For  downward  the  voices  of  duty  call  — 
Downward  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main. 

h.  Changed  to  "  did  bar." 

i.   This  and  the  three  following  lines  changed  to 

And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone  — 
Crystals  clear  or  a-cloud  with  mist, 
Ruby,  garnet,  and  amethyst  — 

Made  lures  with  the  lightnings  of  streaming  stone. 

/.  Changed  to  "  Avail !  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain." 


SIDNEY   LANIER  421 

The  dry  fields  burn  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  thousand  meadows*  mortally  yearn. 
And  the  final'  main  from  beyond  the  plain 
Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And  calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

THE   CRYSTAL1 

At  midnight,  death's  and  truth's  unlocking  time, 

When  far  within  the  spirit's  hearing  rolls 

The  great  soft  rumble  of  the  course  of  things  — 

A  bulk  of  silence  in  a  mask  of  sound  — 

When  darkness  clears  our  vision  that  by  day 

Is  sun-blind,  and  the  soul 's  a  ravening  owl 

For  truth,  and  flitteth  here  and  there  about 

Low-lying  woody  tracts  of  time  and  oft 

Is  minded  for  to  sit  upon  a  bough, 

Dry-dead  and  sharp,  of  some  long-stricken  tree 

And  muse  in  that  gaunt  place,  —  't  was  then  my  heart, 

Deep  in  the  meditative  dark,  cried  out : 

Ye  companies  of  governor-spirits  grave, 
Bards,  and  old  bringers-down  of  flaming  news 
From  steep-walled  heavens,  holy  malcontents, 
Sweet  seers,  and  stellar  visionaries,  all 
That  brood  about  the  skies  of  poesy, 
Full  bright  ye  shine,  insuperable  stars ; 
Yet,  if  a  man  look  hard  upon  you,  none 
With  total  luster  blazeth,  no,  not  one 

k.  Changed  to  "  myriad  of  flowers." 

/.    Changed  to  "  lordly." 

1  This  poem  appeared  in  the  Independent,  July  15,  1880,  from  which  it  is  taken. 
The  passage  in  which  Lanier  reviews  the  world's  great  names,  —  Shakespeare, 
Homer,  Socrates,  Buddha,  Dante,  Milton,  JEschylus,  Lucretius,  etc.,  —  only  tq 
find  some  flaw  in  each,  is  here  omitted. 


422     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

But  hath  some  heinous  freckle  of  the  flesh 
Upon  his  shining  cheek,  not  one  but  winks 
His  ray,  opaqued  with  intermittent  mist 
Of  defect ;  yea,  you  masters  all  must  ask 
Some  sweet  forgiveness,  which  we  leap  to  give, 
We  lovers  of  you,  heavenly-glad  to  meet 
Your  largess  so  with  love,  and  interplight 
Your  geniuses  with  our  mortalities.  .  .  . 

But  Thee,  but  Thee,  O  sovereign  Seer  of  time, 

But  Thee,  O  poet's  Poet,  Wisdom's  Tongue, 

But  Thee,  O  man's  best  Man,  O  love's  best  Love, 

O  perfect  life  in  perfect  labor  writ, 

O  all  men's  Comrade,  Servant,  King,  or  Priest,  — 

What  if  or  _>'<?/,  what  mole,  what  flaw,  what  lapse, 

What  least  defect  or  shadow  of  defect, 

What  rumor,  tattled  by  an  enemy, 

Of  inference  loose,  what  lack  of  grace 

Even  in  torture's  grasp,  or  sleep's,  or  death's,— 

Oh,  what  amiss  may  I  forgive  in  Thee, 

Jesus,  good  Paragon,  thou  Crystal  Christ  t 

SUNRISE1 

In  my  sleep  I  was  fain  of  their  fellowship,  fain 
Of  the  live-oak,  the  marsh,  and  the  main. 
The  little  green  leaves  would  not  let  me  alone  in  my  sleep ; 
Up  breathed  from  the  marshes,  a  message  of  range  and  of  sweep, 
Interwoven  with  waftures  of  wild  sea-liberties,  drifting, 
Came  through  the  lapped  leaves  sifting,  sifting, 
Came  to  the  gates  of  sleep. 

1  First  published  in  the  Independent,  December  14,  1882,  from  which  it  is 
here  taken, 


SIDNEY   LANIER  423 

Then  my  thoughts,  in  the  dark  of  the  dungeon-keep 
Of  the  Castle  of  Captives  hid  in  the  City  of  Sleep, 
Upstarted,  by  twos  and  by  threes  assembling : 
The  gates  of  sleep  fell  a-trembling 
Like  as  the  lips  of  a  lady  that  forth  falter  yes, 

Shaken  with  happiness : 

The  gates  of  sleep  stood  wide. 

I  have  waked,  I  have  come,  my  beloved  !    I  might  not  abide : 
I  have  come  ere  the  dawn,  O  beloved,  my  live-oaks,  to  hide 

In  your  gospeling  glooms,  —  to  be 
As  a  lover  in  heaven,  the  marsh  my  marsh  and  the  sea  my  sea. 

Tell  me,  sweet  burly-barked,  man-bodied  Tree 
That  mine  arms  in  the  dark  are  embracing,  dost  know 
From  what  fount  are  these  tears  at  thy  feet  which  flow  ? 
They  rise  not  from  reason,  but  deeper  inconsequent  deeps. 

Reason  's  not  one  that  weeps. 

What  logic  of  greeting  lies 
Betwixt  dear  over-beautiful  trees  and  the  rain  of  the  eyes  ? 

O  cunning  green  leaves,  little  masters !  like  as  ye  gloss 

All  the  dull-tissued  dark  with  your  luminous  darks  that  emboss 

The  vague  blackness  of  night  into  pattern  and  plan, 

So, 

(But  would  I  could  know,  but  would  I  could  know,) 
With  your  question  embroid'ring  the  dark  of  the  question  of 

man,  — 

So,  with  your  silences  purfling  this  silence  of  man 
While  his  cry  to  the  dead  for  some  knowledge  is  under  the  ban, 
Under  the  ban,  — 

So,  ye  have  wrought  me 


424     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Designs  on  the  night  of  our  knowledge,  —  yea,  ye  have  taught  me, 

So, 
That  haply  we  know  somewhat  more  than  we  know. 

Ye  lispers,  whisperers,  singers  in  storms, 
Ye  consciences  murmuring  faiths  under  forms, 
Ye  ministers  meet  for  each  passion  that  grieves, 
Friendly,  sisterly,  sweetheart  leaves, 
Oh,  rain  me  down  from  your  darks  that  contain  me 
Wisdoms  ye  winnow  from  winds  that  pain  me,  — 
Sift  down  tremors  of  sweet-within-sweet 
That  advise  me  of  more  than  they  bring,  —  repeat 
Me  the  woods-smell  that  swiftly  but  now  brought  breath 
From  the  heaven-side  bank  of  the  river  of  death,  — 
Teach  me  the  terms  of  silence,  —  preach  me 
The  passion  of  patience,  —  sift  me,  —  impeach  me,  — 

And  there,  oh  there 

As  ye  hang  with  your  myriad  palms  upturned  in  the  air, 
Pray  me  a  myriad  prayer. 

My  gossip,  the  owl,  —  is  it  thou 

That  out  of  the  leaves  of  the  low-hanging  bough, 

As  I  pass  to  the  beach,  art  stirred  ? 

Dumb  woods,  have  ye  uttered  a  bird  ? 

Reverend  Marsh,  low-couched  along  the  sea, 
Old  chemist,  rapt  in  alchemy, 

Distilling  silence,  —  lo, 

That  which  our  father-age  had  died  to  know  — 
The  menstruum  that  dissolves  all  matter  —  thou 
Hast  found  it :  for  this  silence,  filling  now 
The  globed  clarity  of  receiving  space, 
This  solves  us  all :  man,  matter,  doubt,  disgrace, 


SIDNEY   LANIER  425 

Death,  love,  sin,  sanity, 

Must  in  yon  silence'  clear  solution  lie. 

Too  clear !    That  crystal  nothing  who  '11  peruse  ? 

The  blackest  night  could  bring  us  brighter  news. 

Yet  precious  qualities  of  silence  haunt 

Round  these  vast  margins,  ministrant. 

Oh,  if  thy  soul 's  at  latter  gasp  for  space, 

With  trying  to  breathe  no  bigger  than  thy  race 

Just  to  be  fellowed,  when  that  thou  hast  found 

No  man  with  room,  or  grace  enough  of  bound 

To  entertain  that  New  thou  tell'st,  thou  art,  — 

'T  is  here,  't  is  here,  thou  canst  unhand  thy  heart 

And  breathe  it  free,  and  breathe  it  free, 

By  rangy  marsh,  in  lone  sea-liberty. 

The  tide  's  at  full :  the  marsh  with  flooded  streams 

Glimmers,  a  limpid  labyrinth  of  dreams. 

Each  winding  creek  in  grave  entrancement  lies 

A  rhapsody  of  morning-stars.    The  skies 

Shine  scant  with  one  forked  galaxy,  — 

The  marsh  brags  ten  :  looped  on  his  breast  they  lie. 

Oh,  what  if  a  sound  should  be  made ! 

Oh,  what  if  a  bound  should  be  laid 

To  this  bow-and-string  tension  of  beauty  and  silence  a-spring,  — 

To  the  bend  of  beauty  the  bow,  or  the  hold  of  silence  the  string  ! 

I  fear  me,  I  fear  me  yon  dome  of  diaphanous  gleam 

Will  break  as  a  bubble  o'erblown  in  a  dream,  — 

Yon  dome  of  too-tenuous  tissues  of  space  and  of  night, 

Overweighted  with  stars,  overfreighted  with  light, 

Oversated  with  beauty  and  silence,  will  seem 

But  a  bubble  that  broke  in  a  dream, 
If  a  bound  of  degree  to  this  grace  be  laid, 

Or  a  sound  or  a  motion  made. 


426     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

But  no  :  it  is  made  :  list !  somewhere,  —  mystery,  where  ? 

In  the  leaves  ?  in  the  air  ? 
In  my  heart  ?  is  a  motion  made  : 

'T  is  a  motion  of  dawn,  like  a  flicker  of  shade  on  shade. 
In  the  leaves  't  is  palpable  :  low  multitudinous  stirring 
Upwinds  through  the  woods ;  the  little  ones,  softly  conferring, 
Have  settled  my  lord's  to  be  looked  for ;  so  ;  they  are  still ; 
But  the  air  and  my  heart  and  the  earth  are  a-thrill,  — 
And  look  where  the  wild  duck  sails  round  the  bend  of  the  river,  — 

And  look  where  a  passionate  shiver 

Expectant  is  bending  the  blades 
Of  the  marsh-grass  in  serial  shimmers  and  shades,  — 
And  invisible  wings,  fast  fleeting,  fast  fleeting, 

Are  beating 

The  dark  overhead  as  my  heart  beats,  —  and  steady  and  free 
Is  the  ebb-tide  flowing  from  marsh  to  sea  — 

(Run  home,  little  streams, 

With  your  lapfuls  of  stars  and  dreams),  — 
And  a  sailor  unseen  is  hoisting  a-peak, 
For  list,  down  the  inshore  curve  of  the  creek 

How  merrily  flutters  the  sail,  — 
And  lo,  in  the  East !    Will  the  East  unveil  ? 
The  East  is  unveiled,  the  East  hath  confessed 
A  flush  :   't  is  dead  ;  't  is  alive  ;  't  is  dead,  ere  the  West 
Was  aware  of  it :  nay,  't  is  abiding,  't  is  withdrawn  : 
Have  a  care,  sweet  Heaven  !    'T  is  Dawn. 

Now  a  dream  of  a  flame  through  that  dream  of  a  flush  is  up- 
rolled  : 

To  the  zenith  ascending,  a  dome  of  undazzling  gold 
Is  builded,  in  shape  as  a  beehive,  from  out  of  the  sea : 
The  hive  is  of  gold  undazzling,  but  oh,  the  Bee, 
The  star-fed  Bee,  the  build-fire  Bee, 


SIDNEY   LANIER  427 

Of  dazzling  gold  is  the  great  Sun- Bee 

That  shall  flash  from  the  hive-hole  over  the  sea. 

Yet  now  the  dewdrop,  now  the  morning  gray, 

Shall  live  their  little  lucid  sober  day 

Ere  with  the  sun  their  souls  exhale  a\vay. 

Now  in  each  pettiest  personal  sphere  of  dew 

The  summ'd  morn  shines  complete  as  in  the  blue 

Big  dewdrop  of  all  heaven :  with  these  lit  shrines 

O'er-silvered  to  the  farthest  sea-confines, 

The  sacramental  marsh  one  pious  plain 

Of  worship  lies.    Peace  to  the  ante-reign 

Of  Mary  Morning,  blissful  mother  mild, 

Minded  of  nought  but  peace,  and  of  a  child. 

Not  slower  than  Majesty  moves,  for  a  mean  and  a  measure 
Of  motion,  —  not  faster  than  dateless  Olympian  leisure 
Might  pace  with  unblown  ample  garments  from  pleasure  to 

pleasure,  — 

The;  wave-serrate  sea-rim  sinks  unjarring,  unreeling, 
Forever  revealing,  revealing,  revealing, 
Edgewise,  bladewise,  halfwise,  wholewise,  —  ?t  is  done ! 

Good-morrow,  lord  Sun  ! 
With  several  voice,  with  ascription  one, 
The  woods  and  the  marsh  and  the  sea  and  my  soul 
Unto  thee,  whence  the  glittering  stream  of  all  morrows  doth  roll, 
Cry  good  and  past-good  and  most  heavenly  morrow,  lord  Sun. 

O  Artisan  born  in  the  purple,  —  Workman  Heat,  — 

Parter  of  passionate  atoms  that  travail  to  meet 

And  be  mixed  in  the  death-cold  oneness,  —  innermost  Guest 

At  the  marriage  of  elements,  —  fellow7  of  publicans,  —  blest 

King  in  the  blouse  of  flame,  that  loiterest  o'er 

The  idle  skies,  yet  laborest  fast  evermore,  — 


428     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Thou  in  the  fine  forge-thunder,  thou,  in  the  beat 
Of  the  heart  of  a  man,  thou  Motive,  —  Laborer  Heat : 
Yea,  Artist,  thou,  of  whose  art  yon  sea  's  all  news, 
With  his  inshore  greens  and  manifold  mid-sea  blues, 
Pearl-glint,  shell-tint,  ancientest  perfectest  hues, 
Ever  shaming  the  maidens,  —  lily  and  rose 
Confess  thee,  and  each  mild  flame  that  glows 
In  the  clarified  virginal  bosoms  of  stones  that  shine, 
It  is  thine,  it  is  thine : 

Thou  chemist  of  storms,  whether  driving  the  winds  a-swirl 

Or  a-flicker  the  subtiler  essences  polar  that  whirl 

In  the  magnet  earth,  —  yea,  thou  with  a  storm  for  a  heart, 

Rent  with  debate,  many-spotted  with  question,  part 

From  part  oft  sundered,  yet  ever  a  globed  light, 

Yet  ever  the  artist,  ever  more  large  and  bright 

Than  the  eye  of  a  man  may  avail  of :  —  manifold  One, 

I  must  pass  from  thy  face,  I  must  pass  from  the  face  of  the  Sun 

Old  Want  is  awake  and  agog,  every  wrinkle  a-frown ; 
The  worker  must  pass  to  his  work  in  the  terrible  town : 
But  I  fear  not,  nay,  and  I  fear  not  the  thing  to  be  done ; 
I  am  strong  with  the  strength  of  my  lord  the  Sun : 
How  dark,  how  dark  soever  the  race  that  must  needs  be  run, 
I  am  lit  with  the  Sun. 


Oh,  never  the  mast-high  run  of  the  seas 

Of  traffic  shall  hide  thee, 
Never  the  hell-colored  smoke  of  the  factories 

Hide  thee, 
Never  the  reek  of  the  time's  fen-politics 

Hide  thee, 


JOHN   BANISTER  TABB  429 

And  ever  my  heart  through  the  night  shall  with  knowledge 

abide  thee, 

And  ever  by  day  shall  my  spirit,  as  one  that  hath  tried  thee, 
Labor,  at  leisure,  in  art,  —  till  yonder  beside  thee 

My  soul  shall  float,  friend  Sun, 

The  day  being  done. 


JOHN   BANISTER  TABB 

[John  Banister  Tabb,  more  commonly  called  Father  Tabb,  was 
born  in  Virginia  in  1845.  During  the  Civil  War  he  served  on  a 
blockade  runner,  and,  being  captured,  he  was  imprisoned  in  Point 
Lookout  prison,  where  he  became  the  friend  of  Sidney  Lanier.  In 
1872  he  began  to  teach  and  to  write  verses,  and  in  1884  he  privately 
published  his  first  volume  of  poems.  In  the  meantime  he  had  been 
ordained  a  priest  in  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  and  had  become 
professor  of  English  in  St.  Charles  College,  Maryland.  There  he 
died  in  1909.  He  has  published,  at  various  times,  some  seven  or 
eight  volumes  of  verse.] 

MY  STAR1 

Since  the  dewdrop  holds  the  star 

The  long  night  through, 
Perchance  the  satellite  afar 

Reflects  the  dew. 


And  while  thine  image  in  my  heart 

Doth  steadfast  shine ; 
There,  haply,  in  thy  heaven  apart 

Thou  keepest  mine. 

1  The  selections  from  Tabb  are  here  reprinted  through  the  kind  permission 
of  the  holder  of  the  copyright,  Small,  Maynard  £  Company. 


430     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

KILLDEE 

Killdee  !  Killdee  !  far  o'er  the  lea 

At  twilight  comes  the  cry. 
Killdee  !  a  marsh-mate  answereth 

Across  the  shallow  sky. 

Killdee  !  Killdee  !  thrills  over  me 

A  rhapsody  of  light, 
As  star  to  star  gives  utterance 

Between  the  day  and  night. 

Killdee  !  Killdee !  O  Memory, 
The  twin  birds,  Joy  and  Pain, 

Like  shadows  parted  by  the  sun, 
At  twilight  meet  again  ! 

CLOVER 

Little  masters,  hat  in  hand 
Let  me  in  your  presence  stand, 
Till  your  silence  solve  for  me 
This  your  threefold  mystery. 

Tell  me  —  for  I  long  to  know  — 
How,  in  darkness  there  below, 
Was  your  fairy  fabric  spun, 
Spread  and  fashioned,  three  in  one. 

Did  your  gossips  gold  and  blue, 
Sky  and  Sunshine,  choose  for  you, 
Ere  your  triple  forms  were  seen, 
Suited  liveries  of  green  ? 


JOHN   HENRY   BONER  431 

Can  ye,  —  if  ye  dwelt  indeed 
Captives  of  a  prison  seed,  — 
Like  the  Genie,  once  again 
Get  you  back  into  the  grain  ? 

Little  masters,  may  I  stand 
In  your  presence,  hat  in  hand, 
Waiting  till  you  solve  for  me 
This  your  threefold  mystery  ? 

FAME 

Their  noonday  never  knows 

What  names  immortal  are : 
'T  is  night  alone  that  shows 

How  star  surpasseth  star. 


JOHN  HENRY  BONER 

[John  Henry  Boner  was  born  in  Salem,  North  Carolina,  in  1845,  of 
Moravian  lineage.  He  was  at  first  connected  as  printer  and  as  editor 
with  newspapers  in  North  Carolina.  In  1871  he  secured  government 
employment  in  Washington.  Subsequently  he  engaged  in  literary 
work  in  New  York.  On  account  of  impaired  health  he  was  forced 
to  give  up  his  work  in  New  York  and  to  return  to  Washington, 
where  for  a  while  he  acted  as  proofreader  in  the  Government  Print 
ing  Office.  He  died  in  Washington  in  1903.] 

MOONRISE   IN   THE   PINES1 

The  sultry  day  is  ending, 

The  clouds  are  fading  away, 
Orange  with  purple  is  blending, 

And  purple  is  turning  to  gray ; 

1  The  selections  from  Boner  are  here  reprinted  through  the  permission  of 
the  holder  of  the  copyright,  Mrs,  Boner. 


432     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

The  gray  grows  darker  and  denser 

Till  it  and  the  earth  are  one ; 
A  star  swings  out  like  a  censer, 

And  the  brief  warm  night  is  begun. 


The  brown  moth  floats  and  poises 

Like  a  leaf  in  the  windless  air ; 
Aroused  by  insect  noises 

The  gray  toad  leaves  his  lair ; 
Sounding  the  dusk  depth  quickly 

The  bull  bats  fall  and  rise, 
And  out  of  the  grasses  thickly 

Swarm  glistering  fireflies. 

Now  darkness  heavy,  oppressive, 

And  silent  completes  the  gloom. 
The  breathless  night  is  excessive 

With  fragrance  of  perfume, 
For  the  land  is  enmeshed  and  ablaze 

With  vines  that  blossom  and  trail, 
Embanking  the  traveled  ways 

And  festooning  the  fences  of  rail. 

Afar  in  the  southern  sky 

Heat-lightning  flares  and  glows, 
Vividly  tinting  the  clouds  that  lie 

At  rest  with  a  shimmer  of  rose  — 
Tremulous,  flitting,  uncertain, 

As  a  mystical  light  might  shine 
From  under  an  ebon  curtain 

Before  a  terrible  shrine. 


JOHN   HENRY   BONER  433 

And  the  slumberous  night  grows  late. 

The  midnight  hush  is  deep. 
Under  the  pines  I  wait 

For  the  moon ;  and  the  pine  trees  weep 
Great  drops  of  dew,  that  fall 

Like  footsteps  here  and  there, 
And  they  sadly  whisper  and  call 

To  each  other  high  in  the  air. 


They  rustle  and  whisper  like  ghosts, 

They  sigh  like  souls  in  pain, 
Like  the  movement  of  stealthy  hosts 

They  surge,  and  are  silent  again. 
The  midnight  hush  is  deep, 

But  the  pines  —  the  spirits  distrest  — 
They  move  in  somnambulant  sleep  — 

They  whisper  and  are  not  at  rest. 

Lo !  a  light  in  the  East  opalescent 

Softly  suffuses  the  sky 
Where  flocculent  clouds  are  quiescent, 

Where  like  froth  of  the  ocean  they  lie  — 
Like  foam  on  the  beach  they  crimple 

Where  the  wave  has  spent  its  swirl, 
Like  the  curve  of  a  shell  they  dimple 

Into  iridescent  pearl. 

And  the  light  grows  brighter  and  higher 
Till  far  through  the  trees  I  see 

The  rim  of  a  globe  of  fire 

That  rolls  through  the  darkness  to  me, 


434     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

*> 

And  the  aisles  of  the  forest  gleam 

With  a  splendor  unearthly,  that  shines 

Like  the  light  of  a  lurid  dream 
Through  the  colonnaded  pines. 


THE  LIGHT'OOD   FIRE 

When  wintry  days  are  dark  and  drear 

And  all  the  forest  ways  grow  still, 
When  gray  snow-laden  clouds  appear 

Along  the  bleak  horizon  hill, 
When  cattle  all  are  snugly  penned 

And  sheep  go  huddling  close  together, 
When  steady  streams  of  smoke  ascend 

From  farmhouse  chimneys  —  in  such  weather 
Give  me  old  Carolina's  own, 
A  great  log  house,  a  great  hearthstone, 
A  cheering  pipe  of  cob  or  brier 
And  a  red,  leaping  light'ood  fire. 

When  dreary  day  draws  to  a  close 

And  all  the  silent  land  is  dark, 
When  Boreas  down  the  chimney  blows 

And  sparks  fly  from  the  crackling  bark, 
When  limbs  are  bent  with  snow  or  sleet 

And  owls  hoot  from  the  hollow  tree, 
With  hounds  asleep  about  your  feet, 
Then  is  the  time  for  reverie. 
Give  me  old  Carolina's  own, 
A  hospitable  wide  hearthstone, 
A  cheering  pipe  of  cob  or  brier 
And  a  red,  rousing  light'ood  fire. 


JOHN  HENRY  BONER 

POE'S  COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM 

Here  lived  the  soul  enchanted 

By  melody  of  song ; 
Here  dwelt  the  spirit  haunted 

By  a  demoniac  throng ; 
Here  sang  the  lips  elated  ; 
Here  grief  and  death  were  sated ; 
Here  loved  and  here  unmated 

Was  he,  so  frail,  so  strong. 


435 


POE'S  COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM 


Here  wintry  winds  and  cheerless 

The  dying  firelight  blew, 
While  he  whose  song  was  peerless 

Dreamed  the  drear  midnight  through, 


436     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

And  from  dull  embers  chilling 
Crept  shadows  darkly  filling 
The  silent  place,  and  thrilling 
His  fancy  as  they  grew. 


Here,  with  brow  bared  to  heaven, 
In  starry  night  he  stood, 

With  the  lost  star  of  seven 
Feeling  sad  brotherhood. 

Here  in  the  sobbing  showers 

Of  dark  autumnal  hours 

He  heard  suspected  powers 

Shriek  through  the  stormy  wood. 

From  visions  of  Apollo 

And  of  Astarte's  bliss, 
He  gazed  into  the  hollow 

And  hopeless  vale  of  Dis ; 
And  though  earth  were  surrounded 
By  heaven,  it  still  was  mounded 
With  graves.    His  soul  had  sounded 

The  dolorous  abyss. 


Proud,  mad,  but  not  defiant, 
He  touched  at  heaven  and  hell. 

Fate  found  a  rare  soul  pliant 
And  rung  her  changes  well. 

Alternately  his  lyre, 

Stranded  with  strings  of  fire, 

Led  earth's  most  happy  choir 
Or  flashed  with  Israfel. 


WILL    HENRY   THOMPSON  437 

No  singer  of  old  story 

Luting  accustomed  lays, 
No  harper  for  new  glory, 

No  mendicant  for  praise, 
He  struck  high  chords  and  splendid, 
Wherein  were  fiercely  blended 
Tones  that  unfinished  ended 

With  his  unfinished  days. 

Here  through  this  lowly  portal, 

Made  sacred  by  his  name, 
Unheralded  immortal 

The  mortal  went  and  came. 
And  fate  that  then  denied  him, 
And  envy  that  decried  him, 
And  malice  that  belied  him, 

Have  cenotaphed  his  fame. 

WILL  HEXRY  THOMPSON 

[Will  Henry  Thompson  was  born  in  1848  at  Calhoun,  Georgia. 
Like  his  brother,  Maurice  Thompson,  who  has  been  more  widely 
known  through  his  poems  and  his  novels,  Will  Henry  Thompson 
served  in  the  Confederate  army,  and  later  engaged  in  the  practice  of 
law  in  Indiana.  In  1889  he  moved  to  Seattle,  Washington,  where  he 
has  achieved  prominence  as  an  attorney.  He  is  noted  as  an  orator, 
and  he  has  written  a  small  amount  of  poetry  of  high  quality.] 

THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG 

A  cloud  possessed  the  hollow  field, 
The  gathering  battle's  smoky  shield. 
Athwart  the  gloom  the  lightning  flashed, 
And  through  the  cloud  some  horsemen  dashed, 
And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed. 


438     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN   SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Then  at  the  brief  command  of  Lee 
Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry, 
With  Pickett  leading  grandly  down, 
To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 
Of  those  dread  heights  of  destiny. 

Far  heard  above  the  angry  guns 

A  cry  across  the  tumult  runs,  — 

The  voice  that  rang  through  Shiloh's  woods 

And  Chickamauga's  solitudes, 

The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  sons ! 

Ah,  how  the  withering  tempest  blew 
Against  the  front  of  Pettigrew ! 
A  Khamsin  wind  that  scorched  and  singed 
Like  that  infernal  flame  that  fringed 
The  British  squares  at  Waterloo ! 

A  thousand  fell  where  Kemper  led ; 
A  thousand  died  where  Garnett  bled : 
In  blinding  flame  and  strangling  smoke 
The  remnant  through  the  batteries  broke 
And  crossed  the  works  with  Armistead. 

"  Once  more  in  Glory's  van  with  me  !  " 
Virginia  cried  to  Tennessee  ; 
"  We  two  together,  come  what  may, 
Shall  stand  upon  these  works  to-day ! " 
(The  reddest  day  in  history.) 

Brave  Tennessee  !    In  reckless  way 
Virginia  heard  her  comrade  say : 
"  Close  round  this  rent  and  riddled  rag ! " 
What  time  she  set  her  battle  flag 
Amid  the  guns  of  Doubleday. 


WILL    HENRY   THOMPSON  439 

But  who  shall  break  the  guards  that  wait 
Before  the  awful  face  of  Fate  ? 
The  tattered  standards  of  the  South 
Were  shriveled  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
And  all  her  hopes  were  desolate. 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 
His  breast  against  the  bayonet ! 
In  vain  Virginia  charged  and  raged, 
A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged, 
Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet ! 

Above  the  bayonets,  mixed  and  crossed, 
Men  saw  a  gray,  gigantic  ghost 
Receding  through  the  battle  cloud, 
And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud 
The  death  cry  of  a  nation  lost ! 

The  brave  went  down  !    Without  disgrace 
They  leaped  to  Ruin's  red  embrace. 
They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake, 
And  saw  the  dazzling  sunburst  break 
In  smiles  on  Glory's  bloody  face ! 

They  fell,  who  lifted  up  a  hand 
And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand ! 
They  smote  and  fell,  who  set  the  bars 
Against  the  progress  of  the  stars, 
And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland ! 

They  stood,  who  saw  the  future  come 
On  through  the  fight's  delirium  ! 
They  smote  and  stood,  who  held  the  hope 
Of  nations  on  that  slipper)-  slope 
Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom. 


440     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

God  lives !    He  forged  the  iron  will 
That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill. 
God  lives  and  reigns !    He  built  and  lent 
The  heights  for  Freedom's  battlement 
Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still ! 

Fold  up  the  banners  !    Smelt  the  guns ! 
Love  rules.    Her  gentler  purpose  runs. 
A  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears 
The  pages  of  her  battle  years, 
Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons  ! 


SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK 

[Samuel  Minturn  Peck  was  born  in  Tuscaloosa,  Alabama,  in  1854. 
After  graduating  from  the  University  of  Alabama  he  studied  medicine 
in  New  York.  He  began  writing  about  his  twenty-fifth  year,  and  has 
collected  his  poems  into  several  volumes  published  at  various  inter 
vals.  He  has  also  written  stories  collected  under  the  title  "Alabama 
Sketches."] 

A  SOUTHERN   GIRL1 

Her  dimpled  cheeks  are  pale ; 
She  's  a  lily  of  the  vale, 

Not  a  rose. 
In  a  muslin  or  a  lawn 
She  is  fairer  than  the  dawn 

To  her  beaux. 

Her  boots  are  slim  and  neat, — 
She  is  vain  about  her  feet 
It  is  said. 

1  The  selections  from  Samuel  Minturn  Peck  are  here  reprinted  through  the 
permission  of  the  holder  of  the  copyright,  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


SAMUEL  MINTURN    PECK  441 

She  amputates  her  r  s, 
But  her  eyes  are  like  the  stars 
Overhead. 


On  a  balcony  at  night 
With  a  fleecy  cloud  of  white 

Round  her  hair  — 
Her  grace,  ah,  who  could  paint  ? 
She  would  fascinate  a  saint, 

I  declare. 

T  is  a  matter  of  regret, 
She  's  a  bit  of  a  coquette, 

Whom  I  sing : 
On  her  cruel  path  she  goes 
With  a  half  a  dozen  beaux 

To  her  string. 

But  let  all  that  pass  by, 
As  her  maiden  moments  fly 

Dew  empearled ; 
When  she  marries,  on  my  life. 
She  will  make  the  dearest  wife 

In  the  world. 


THE  GRAPEVINE  S\VING 

When  I  was  a  boy  on  the  old  plantation, 

Down  by  the  deep  bayou, 
The  fairest  spot  of  all  creation, 

Under  the  arching  blue  ; 


442     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN   SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

When  the  wind  came  over  the  cotton  and  corn, 

To  the  long  slim  loop  I'd  spring 
With  brown  feet  bare,  and  a  hat  brim  torn, 

And  swing  in  the  grapevine  swing. 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing, 
Laughing  where  the  wild  birds  sing, 

I  dream  and  sigh 

For  the  days  gone  by 
Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing. 

Out  —  o'er  the  water  lilies  bonnie  and  bright, 

Back  —  to  the  moss-grown  trees  ; 
I  shouted  and  laughed  with  a  heart  as  light 

As  a  wild  rose  tossed  by  the  breeze. 
The  mocking  bird  joined  in  my  reckless  glee, 

I  longed  for  no  angel's  wing, 
I  was  just  as  near  heaven  as  I  wanted  to  be 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing. 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing, 
Laughing  where  the  wild  birds  sing, — 

Oh,  to  be  a  boy 

With  a  heart  full  of  joy, 
Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing  ! 

I'm  weary  at  noon,  I'm  weary  at  night, 

I  'm  fretted  and  sore  of  heart, 
And  care  is  sowing  my  locks  with  white 

As  I  wend  through  the  fevered  mart. 
I'm  tired  of  the  world  with  its  pride  and  pomp, 

And  fame  seems  a  worthless  thing. 
I'd  barter  it  all  for  one  day's  romp, 

And  a  swing  in  the  grapevine  swing. 


SAMUEL  MINTURN    PECK  443 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing, 
Laughing  where  the  wild  birds  sing, 

I  would  I  were  away 

From  the  world  to-day, 
Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing. 


AUNT  JEMIMA'S  QUILT 

A  miracle  of  gleaming  dyes 

Blue,  scarlet,  buff  and  green  ; 
O  ne'er  before  by  mortal  eyes 

Such  gorgeous  hues  were  seen ! 
So  grandly  was  its  plan  designed, 

So  cunningly  't  was  built, 
The  whole  proclaimed  a  master  mind  — 

My  Aunt  Jemima's  quilt. 

Each  friendly  household  far  and  wide 

Contributed  its  share ; 
It  chronicled  the  countryside 

In  colors  quaint  and  rare. 
From  belles  and  brides  came  rich  brocade 

Enwrought  with  threads  of  gilt ; 
E'en  buxom  widows  lent  their  aid 

To  Aunt  Jemima's  quilt. 

No  tapestry  from  days  of  yore, 

No  web  from  Orient  loom, 
But  paled  in  beauteous  tints  before 

This  strange  expanse  of  bloom. 
Here  glittering  stars  and  comet  shone 

O'er  flowers  that  never  wilt ; 
Here  fluttered  birds  from  worlds  unknown 

On  Aunt  Jemima's  quilt 


444     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

O,  merry  was  the  quilting  bee, 

When  this  great  quilt  was  done ; 
The  rafters  rang  with  maiden  glee, 

And  hearts  were  lost  and  won. 
Ne'er  did  a  throng  of  braver  men 

In  war  clash  hilt  to  hilt, 
Than  sought  the  smiles  of  beauty  then 

Round  Aunt  Jemima's  quilt. 

This  work  of  art  my  aunt  esteemed 

The  glory  of  the  age  ; 
No  poet's  eyes  have  ever  beamed 

More  proudly  o'er  his  page. 
Were  other  quilt  to  this  compared, 

Her  nose  woujd  upward  tilt ; 
Such  impudence  was  seldom  dared 

O'er  Aunt  Jemima's  quilt. 

Her  dear  old  hands  have  gone  to  dust, 

That  once  were  lithe  and  light ; 
Her  needles  keen  are  thick  with  rust, 

That  flashed  so  nimbly  bright. 
And  here  it  lies  by  her  behest, 

Stained  with  the  tears  we  spilt, 
Safe  folded  in  this  cedar  chest  — • 

My  Aunt  Jemima's  quilt. 


WILLIAM    HAMILTON   HAYNE 


WILLIAM   HAMILTON   HAYNE 


445 


[William  Hamilton  Hayne,  the  son  of  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne, 
was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  in  1856.  He  was  educated 
mainly  at  his  father's  home,  "  Copse  Hill,"  near  Augusta,  Georgia. 
Like  his  father  he  has  devoted  himself  wholly  to  literature,  begin 
ning  to  publish  verses  in  newspapers  and  magazines  in  1879.  His 
collected  poems  were  published  in  1 892  under  the  tide  ?t  Sylvan 
Lyrics  and  Other  Verses.''  Mr.  Hayne  lives  at  Augusta,  Georgia.] 


WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE 


A  MEADOW  SONG1 

O  come  to  the  meadow,  with  me, 

For  the  lark  is  hovering  high, 
To  bathe  in  the  light  of  the  sun 

And  the  south  winds  wandering  by ! 

1  The  selections  from  William  Hamilton  Hayne  are  here  reprinted  through 
the  permission  of  the  author. 


446     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

A  thrush  by  the  rivulet's  rim 

Grows  gay  from  the  breath  of  the  grass, 

And  sings  to  his  sweetheart,  the  brook, 
That  mirrors  his  love  like  a  glass  ! 


O  come  to  the  meadow  with  me  — 

Bird-music  is  gleeful  and  good 
With  Nature's  full  chorus  of  winds 

From  the  wonderful  heart  of  the  wood ! 
Forget-me-nots  gleam  in  the  grass, 

For  the  morning  is  mirthful  with  love  — 
From  robins  that  roam  in  the  glen 

To  the  palpitant  wings  of  the  dove. 


O  come  to  the  meadow  with  me, 

To  the  rivulet's  emerald  edge, 
And  hear  the  low  lilt  of  the  stream 

Where  the  dewdrops  encircle  the  sedge  ; 
The  young  leaves  look  up  to  the  sky, 

And  the  redbirds  come  hither  to  roam — 
They  love  the  brook's  lyrical  flow 

And  its  delicate  fretwork  of  foam ! 


O  come  to  the  meadow  with  me 

While  the  music  of  morning  is  heard, 
And  the  rapture  of  fetterless  song 

Is  sent  from  the  heart  of  a  bird ! 
Come  hither  and  wander  with  me, 

For  Nature  is  breathing  of  love 
From  violets  veiled  in  the  grass 

To  the  tremulous  wings  of  the  dove ! 


WILLIAM    HAMILTON    HAYNE  447 

WHEN  DOGWOOD  BRIGHTENS  THE  GROVES 
OF  SPRING 

When  dogwood  brightens  the  groves  of  spring 

And  the  gold  of  jasmine  gleams, 
When  mating  birds  in  the  forest  sing, 

Ah !  that  is  the  time  for  dreams, 
For  thoughts  of  love  that  are  always  new  — 

Though  as  old  as  the  ancient  world  — 
Forever  fresh  as  the  Maytime  dew 

In  the  breast  of  the  rose  impearled. 

When  timid  green  on  the  thorn  tree  grows  — 

Like  love  at  the  verge  of  hate  — 
And  air  from  the  apple  orchard  flows 

Through  the  springtide's  open  gate, 
When  drowsy  winds  o'er  the  lilies  pass, 

And  the  wings  of  the  thrush  are  shy ; 
When  violets  bloom  in  the  new-born  grass, 

With  the  tints  of  a  tropic  sky ; 

When  jonquils  borrow  the  sun's  warm  ray, 

And  the  woodbine  lures  the  bee ; 
When  the  heart  that  was  once  a  waif  and  stray 

Returns  like  a  ship  from  sea  — 
Ah !  that  is  the  time  that  no  man  grieves 

Who  woos  with  the  wooing  dove, 
For  the  hearts  of  men  and  the  hearts  of  leaves 

Are  throbbing  with  hope  and  love !. 


448     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

ROBERT  BURNS  WILSON 

[Robert  Burns  Wilson  was  born  in  Washington  County,  Pennsyl 
vania,  in  1850.  Early  in  life  he  became  a  resident  of  Frankfort, 
Kentucky.  In  addition  to  writing  poetry  he  has  studied  painting  and 
exhibited  his  pictures  with  great  success.  During  the  later  years  of 
his  life  his  home  was  chiefly  in  New  York,  where  he  died  in  1916.] 

TO  A  CROW 

Bold,  amiable,  ebon  outlaw,  grave  and  wise ! 

For  many  a  good  green  year  hast  thou  withstood  — 

By  dangerous,  planted  field  and  haunted  wood  — 

All  the  devices  of  thine  enemies, 

Gleaning  thy  grudged  breath  with  watchful  eyes 

And  self-relying  soul.    Come  ill  or  good, 

Blithe  days  thou  see'st,  thou  feather  Robin  Hood ! 

Thou  mak'st  a  jest  of  farm-land  boundaries. 

Take  all  thou  may'st,  and  never  count  it  crime 

To  rob  the  greatest  robber  of  the  earth, 

Weak-visioned,  dull,  self-lauding  man,  whose  worth 

Is  in  his  own  esteem.    Bide  thou  thy  time ; 

Thou  know'st  far  more  of  Nature's  lore  than  he, 

And  her  wide  lap  shall  still  provide  for  thee. 

BALLAD  OF  THE  FADED   FIELD 

Broad  bars  of  sunset-slanted  gold 

Are  laid  along  the  field,  and  here 
The  silence  sings,  as  if  some  old 

Refrain,  that  once  rang  long  and  clear 
Came  softly,  stealing  to  the  ear 

Without  the  aid  of  sound.    The  rill 
Is  voiceless,  and  the  grass  is  sere, 

But  beauty's  soul  abideth  still. 


FRANK  LEBBY  STANTON          449 

Trancelike  the  mellow  air  doth  hold 

The  sorrow  of  the  passing  year ; 
The  heart  of  Nature  groweth  cold, 

The  time  of  falling  snow  is  near ; 
On  phantom  feet,  which  none  may  hear, 

Creeps  —  with  the  shadow  of  the  hill  — 
The  semblance  of  departed  cheer, 

But  beauty's  soul  abideth  still. 

The  dead,  gray-clustered  weeds  enfold 

The  well-known  summer  path,  and  drear 
The  dusking  hills,  like  billows  rolled 

Against  the  distant  sky,  appear. 
From  lonely  haunts,  where  Night  and  Fear 

Keep  ghostly  tryst,  when  mists  are  chill, 
The  dark  pine  lifts  a  jagged  spear, 

But  beauty's  soul  abideth  still. 

ENVOY 

Dear  love,  the  days  that  once  were  dear 

May  come  no  more :  life  may  fulfill 
Her  fleeting  dreams  with  many  a  tear, 

But  beauty's  soul  abideth  still. 


FRANK  LEBBY  STANTON 

[Frank  Lebby  Stan  ton  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  in 
1857.  He  has  served  various  newspapers,  but  seems  finally  to  have 
associated  himself  with  the  Atlanta  Constitution.  To  this  paper  he 
has  for  several  years  past  contributed  a  column  daily  of  verses  and 
short  sketches.  In  this  way  his  poems  have  become  familiar  to 
newspaper  readers  and  are  widely  popular.] 


450     SOUTHERN   LIFE   IN   SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

A  PLANTATION   DITTY 

De  gray  owl  sing  f um  de  chimbly  top : 

"  Who  —  who  —  is  —  you-oo  ?  " 
En  I  say :  "  Good  Lawd,  hit 's  des  po'  me, 
En  I  ain't  quite  ready  fer  de  Jasper  Sea ; 
I'm  po'  en  sinful,  en  you  'lowed  I'd  be ; 

Oh,  wait,  good  Lawd,  'twell  ter-morror." 

De  gray  owl  sing  fum  de  cypress  tree : 

"  Who  —  who  —  is  —  you-oo  ?  " 
En  I  say :  "  Good  Lawd,  if  you  look  you  '11  see 

Hit  ain't  nobody  but  des  po'  me, 
En  I  like  ter  stay  'twell  my  time  is  free ; 

Oh,  wait,  good  Lawd,  'twell  ter-morror." 


THE  GRAVEYARD   RABBIT 

In  the  white  moonlight,  where  the  willow  waves, 
He  halfway  gallops  among  the  graves  — 
A  tiny  ghost  in  the  gloom  and  gleam, 
Content  to  dwell  where  dead  men  dream. 

But  wary  still ! 
For  they  plot  him  ill ; 
For  the  graveyard  rabbit  hath  a  charm 
(May  God  defend  us!)  to  shield  from  harm. 

Over  the  shimmering  slab  he  goes  — 
Every  grave  in  the  dark  he  knows ; 
But  his  nest  is  hidden  from  human  eye 
Where  headstones  broken  on  old  graves  lie. 


FRANK   LEBBY   STANTON  451 

Wary  still ! 

For  they  plot  him  ill ; 

For  the  graveyard  rabbit,  though  sceptics  scoff, 
Charmeth  the  witch  and  the  wizard  off ! 

The  black  man  creeps,  when  the  night  is  dim, 
Fearful,  still,  on  the  track  of  him  ; 
Or  fleetly  follows  the  way  he  runs, 
For  he  heals  the  hurts  of  conjured  ones. 

Wary  still ! 

For  they  plot  him  ill ; 

The  soul 's  bewitched  that  would  find  release,  — 
To  the  graveyard  rabbit  go  for  peace ! 

He  holds  their  secret  —  he  brings  a  boon 
Where  winds  moan  wild  in  the  dark  of  the  moon ; 
And  gold  shall  glitter  and  love  smile  sweet 
To  whoever  shall  sever  his  furry  feet ! 

Wary  still ! 

For  they  plot  him  ill ; 
For  the  graveyard  rabbit  hath  a  charm 
(May  God  defend  us !)  to  shield  from  harm. 

ANSWERING  TO  ROLL  CALL 

This  one  fought  with  Jackson,  and  faced  the  fight  with  Lee ; 
That  one  followed  Sherman  as  he  galloped  to  the  sea ; 
But  they  are  marchin'  on  together  just  as  friendly  as  can  be, 
And  they  '11  answer  to  the  roll  call  in  the  momin'. 

They  '11  rally  to  the  fight 
In  the  stormy  day  and  night, 
In  bonds  that  no  cruel  fate  shall  sever ; 


452     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

While  the  stormwinds  waft  on  high 
Their  ringing  battle-cry : 
"  Our  country,  —  our  country  forever  1 " 

The  brave  old  flag  above  them  is  rippling  down  its  red,  — 
Each  crimson  stripe  the  emblem  of  the  blood  by  heroes  shed  ; 
It  shall  wave  for  them  victorious  or  droop  above  them,  —  dead, 
For  they  '11  answer  to  the  roll  call  in  the  mornin'. 

They  '11  rally  to  the  fight 

In  the  stormy  day  and  night, 
In  bonds  that  no  cruel  fate  shall  sever  ; 

While  the  stormwinds  waft  on  high 

Their  ringing  battle-cry  : 
"  Our  country,  —  our  country  forever  !  " 


MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN 

[Madison  Julius  Cawein  was  born  in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  in 
1865.  After  graduating  from  the 
high  school  of  that  city,  he  engaged 
in  business,  but  found  time  for  the 
writing  of  poetry  and  the  study  of 
literature.  His  first  volume  of  verse, 
"  Blooms  of  the  Berry,"  published 
in  1887,  made  but  little  impression 
until,  in  1888,  Mr.  W.  D.  Howells 
praised  it  in  the  "  Editor's  Study  " 
of  Harper's  Magazine.  This  drew 
attention  to  Cawein's  work,  and 
gradually  his  circle  of  admirers  was 
enlarged.  In  all,  Cawein  published 
some  twenty  columns  of  poems,  the 
best  of  which  he  collected  toward 
the  close  of  his  life  in  a  volume 
entitled  "Selected  Poems."  He 
died  in  Louisville  in  1914.]  MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN 


MADISON   JULIUS    C  AWE  IN  453 

THE  WHIPPOORWILL 

Above  long  woodland  ways  that  led 
To  dells  the  stealthy  twilights  tread, 
The  west  was  hot  geranium-red ; 

And  still,  and  still, 
Along  old  lanes,  the  locusts  sow 
With  clustered  curls  the  Maytimes  know, 
Out  of  the  crimson  afterglow, 
We  heard  the  homeward  cattle  low, 
And  then  the  far-off,  far-off  woe 

Of  "  whippoorwill !  "  of  "  whippoorwill !  " 

Beneath  the  idle  beechen  boughs 
We  heard  the  cowbells  of  the  cows 
Come  slowly  jangling  toward  the  house, 

And  still,  and  still, 
Beyond  the  light  that  would  not  die 
Out  of  the  scarlet-haunted  sky, 
Beyond  the  evening  star's  white  eye 
Of  glittering  chalcedony, 
Drained  out  of  dusk  the  plaintive  cry 

Of  "  whippoorwill !  "  of  "  whippoorwill  I  " 

What  is  there  in  the  moon,  that  swims 
A  naked  bosom  o'er  the  limbs, 
That  all  the  wood  with  magic  dims  ? 

While  still,  while  still, 
Among  the  trees  whose  shadows  grope 
Mid  ferns  and  flowers  the  dewdrops  ope,  — 
Lost  in  faint  deeps  of  heliotrope 
Above  the  clover-scented  slope,  — 
Retreats,  despairing  past  all  hope, 

The  whippoorwill,  the  whippoorwill. 


454     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

EVENING  ON  THE   FARM 

From  out  the  hills  where  twilight  stands, 
Above  the  shadowy  pasture-lands, 

With  strained  and  strident  cry, 
Beneath  pale  skies  that  sunset  bands, 
The  bull  bats  fly. 

A  cloud  hangs  over,  strange  of  shape, 
And,  colored  like  the  half-ripe  grape, 

Seems  some  uneven  stain 
On  heaven's  azure,  thin  as  crape, 
And  blue  as  rain. 


Byways,  that  sunset's  sardonyx 
O'erflares,  and  gates  the  farm-boy  clicks, 

Through  which  the  cattle  came, 
The  mullein's  stalks  seem  giant  wicks 
Of  downy  flame. 

From  woods  no  glimmer  enters  in, 
Above  the  streams  that,  wandering,  win 

From  out  the  violet  hills, 
Those  haunters  of  the  dusk  begin, 
The  whippoorwills. 

Adown  the  dark  the  firefly  marks 
Its  flight  in  golden-emerald  sparks ; 
And,  loosened  from  its  chain, 
The  shaggy  watchdog  bounds  and  barks, 
And  barks  again. 


MADISON  JULIUS   CAWEIN  455 

Each  breeze  brings  scents  of  hill-heaped  hay ; 
And  now  an  owlet,  far  away, 

Cries  twice  or  thrice,  "  T-o-o-w-h-o-o-"  ; 
And  cool  dim  moths  of  mottled  gray 
Flit  through  the  dew. 

The  silence  sounds  its  frog-bassoon, 
Where,  on  the  woodland  creek's  lagoon, 

Pale  as  a  ghostly  girl 

Lost  'mid  the  trees,  looks  down  the  moon, 
With  face  of  pearl. 

Within  the  shed  where  logs,  late  hewed, 
Smell  forest-sweet,  and  chips  of  wood 
Make  blurs  of  white  and  brown, 
The  brood-hen  huddles  her  warm  brood 
Of  teetering  down. 

The  clattering  guineas  in  the  tree 
Din  for  a  time  ;  and  quietly 

The  henhouse,  near  the  fence, 
Sleeps,  save  for  some  brief  rivalry 
Of  cocks  and  hens. 

A  cowbell  tinkles  by  the  rails, 

Where,  streaming  white  in  foaming  pails, 

Milk  makes  an  uddery  sound ; 
While  overhead  the  black  bat  trails 
Around  and  round. 

The  night  is  still.    The  slow  cows  chew 
A  drowsy  cucl.    The  bird  that  flew 

And  sang  is  in  its  nest. 
It  is  the  time  of  falling  dew, 

Of  dreams  and  rest. 


456     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

The  brown  bees  sleep ;  and  round  the  walk, 
The  garden  path,  from  stalk  to  stalk 

The  bungling  beetle  booms, 
Where  two  soft  shadows  stand  and  talk 
Among  the  blooms. 

The  stars  are  thick ;  the  light  is  dead 
That  dyed  the  west ;  and  Drowsyhead, 

Tuning  his  cricket-pipe, 
Nods,  and  some  apple,  round  and  red, 
Drops  overripe. 

Now  down  the  road,  that  shambles  by, 
A  window,  shining  like  an  eye 

Through  climbing  rose  and  gourd, 
Shows  where  Toil  sups  and  these  things  lie  — 
His  heart  and  hoard. 

JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 

[John  Charles  McNeill  was  born  in  Scotland  County,  North 
Carolina,  in  1874.-  After  graduating  from  Wake  Forest  College, 
he  practiced  law  in  Lumberton,  North  Carolina,  for  some  time. 
Later  he  accepted  a  position  on  the  staff  of  the  Charlotte,  North 
Carolina,  Observer,  and  devoted  his  entire  time  to  writing  until  his 
death,  in  1907.  Though  he  published  only  two  small  collections 
of  verse,  yet  these  were  sufficient  to  show  that  he  was  remarkably 
gifted  as  a  poet.] 

1,  AWAY  DOWN   HOME1 

'T  will  not  be  long  before  they  hear 

The  bull  bat  on  the  hill, 
And  in  the  valley  through  the  dusk 

The  pastoral  whippoorwill. 

1  The  selections  from  McNeill  are  published  here  through  the  permission  of 
the  holder  of  copyright,  The  Stone-Barringer  Publishing  Co. 


JOHN   CHARLES   McNEILL 

A  few  more  friendly  suns  will  call 
The  bluets  through  the  loam 

And  star  the  lanes  with  buttercups 
Away  down  home. 


457 


r-r 

JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 

"  Knee-deep  !  "  from  reedy  places 

Will  sing  the  river  frogs. 
The  terrapins  will  sun  themselves 

On  all  the  jutting  logs. 
The  angler's  cautious  oar  will  leave 

A  trail  of  drifting  foam 
Along  the  shady  current 

Away  down  home. 

The  mocking  bird  will  feel  again 

The  glory  of  his  wings, 
And  wanton  through  the  balmy  air 

And  sunshine  while  he  sings, 


458     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

With  a  new  cadence  in  his  call, 
The  glint-wing'd  crow  will  roam 

From  field  to  newly  furrowed  field 
Away  down  home. 

When  dogwood  blossoms  mingle 

With  the  maples'  modest  red, 
And  sweet  arbutus  wakes  at  last 

From  out  her  winter's  bed, 
}T  would  not  seem  strange  at  all  to  meet 

A  dryad  or  a  gnome, 
Or  Pan  or  Psyche  in  the  woods 

Away  down  home. 

Then  come  with  me,  thou  weary  heart ! 

Forget  thy  brooding  ills, 
Since  God  has  come  to  walk  among 

His  valleys  and  his  hills. 
The  mart  will  never  miss  thee, 

Nor  the  scholar's  dusty  tome, 
And  the  Mother  waits  to  bless  thee, 

Away  down  home. 

AN  IDYL 

Upon  a  gnarly,  knotty  limb 

That  fought  the  current's  crest, 

Where  shocks  of  reeds  peeped  o'er  the  brim, 
Wild  wasps  had  glued  their  nest. 

And  in  a  sprawling  cypress'  grot, 

Sheltered  and  safe  from  flood, 
Dirt-daubers  each  had  chosen  a  spot 

To  shape  his  house  of  mud. 


JOHN   CHARLES   McNEILL  459 

In  a  warm  crevice  of  the  bark 

A  basking  scorpion  clung, 
With  bright  blue  tail  and  red-rimmed  eyes, 

And  yellow,  twinkling  tongue. 

A  lunging  trout  flashed  in  the  sun, 

To  do  some  petty  slaughter, 
And  set  the  spiders  all  a-run 

On  little  stilts  of  water. 

Toward  noon  upon  the  swamp  there  stole 

A  deep,  cathedral  hush, 
Save  where,  from  sun-splotched  bough  and  bole, 

Sweet  thrush  replied  to  thrush. 

An  angler  came  to  cast  his  fly 

Beneath  a  baffling  tree. 
I  smiled,  when  I  had  caught  his  eye, 

And  he  smiled  back  at  me. 

When  stretched  beside  a  shady  elm 

I  watched  the  dozy  heat. 
Nature  was  moving  in  her  realm, 

For  I  could  hear  her  feet. 

BAREFOOTED 

The  girls  all  like  to  see  the  bluets  in  the  lane 

And  the  saucy  Johnny  Jump-ups  in  the  meadow, 
But  we  boys,  we  want  to  see  the  dogwood  blooms  again 

Throwin'  a  sort  of  summer-lookin'  shadow ; 
For  the  very  first  mild  mornin'  when  the  woods  are  white 

(And  we  need  n't  even  ask  a  soul  about  it) 
We  leave  our  shoes  right  where  we  pulled  them  off  at  night, 

And,  barefooted  once  again,  we  run  and  shout  it : 


460      SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

You  may  take  the  country  over  — 
When  the  bluebird  turns  a  rover, 
And  the  wind  is  soft  and  hazy, 
And  you  feel  a  little  lazy, 
And  the  hunters  quit  the  possums  — 
It 's  the  time  for  dogwood  blossoms. 

We  feel  so  light  we  wish  there  were  more  fences  here ; 

We  'd  like  to  jump  and  jump  them,  all  together ! 
No  seeds  for  us,  no  guns,  or  even  'simmon  beer, 
No  nothin'  but  the  blossoms  and  fair  weather ! 
The  meadow  is  a  little  sticky  right  at  first, 

But  a  few  short  days  '11  wipe  away  that  trouble. 
To  feel  so  good  and  gay,  I  would  n't  mind  the  worst 
That  could  be  done  by  any  field  o'  stubble. 
O,  all  the  trees  are  seemin'  sappy  1 
O,  all  the  folks  are  smilin'  happy ! 
And  there 's  joy  in  every  little  bit  of  room ; 
But  the  happiest  of  them  all 
At  the  Shanghai  rooster's  call 
Are  we  barefoots  when  the  dogwoods  burst  abloom ! 


SUNDOWN 

Hills,  wrapped  in  gray,  standing  alone  in  the  west 
Clouds,  dimly  lighted,  gathering  slowly ; 

The  star  of  peace  at  watch  above  the  crest  — 
Oh,  holy,  holy,  holy  1 

We  know,  O  Lord,  so  little  what  is  best ; 

Wingless,  we  move  so  lowly ; 
But  in  thy  calm  all-knowledge  let  us  rest  — 

Oh,  holy,  holy,  holy  1 


WALTER   M ALONE  461 

WALTER  MALONE 

[Walter  Malone  was  born  in  De  Soto  County,  Mississippi,  in  1 866. 
After  graduating  from  the  University  of  Mississippi,  he  began  the 
practice  of  law,  in  which  he  was  very  successful.  In  1905  he  was 
appointed  judge.  His  home  was  in  Memphis,  Tennessee,  with  the 
exception  of  the  years  from  1897  to  1900.  during  which  he  was 
engaged  in  literary  pursuits  in  New  York  City.  He  published  several 
volumes  of  poetry,  most  of  the  earlier  volumes  being  published  in 
1904  in  a  collective  edition  entitled  "  Poems."  He  died  in  Memphis 
in  1915.] 

OCTOBER  IN  TENNESSEE 

Far,  far  away,  beyond  the  hazy  height, 

The  turquois  skies  are  hung  in  dreamy  sleep ; 

Below,  the  fields  of  cotton,  fleecy-white, 
Are  spreading  like  a  mighty  flock  of  sheep. 

Now,  like  Aladdin  of  the  days  of  old, 

October  robes  the  weeds  in  purple  gowns ; 

He  sprinkles  all  the  sterile  fields  with  gold. 
And  all  the  rustic  trees  wear  royal  crowns. 

The  straggling  fences  all  are  interlaced 

With  pink  and  azure  morning-glory  blooms, 

The  starry  asters  glorify  the  waste, 

While  grasses  stand  on  guard  with  pikes  and  plumes. 

Yet  still  amid  the  splendor  of  decay 

The  chill  winds  call  for  blossoms  that  are  dead, 

The  cricket  chirps  for  sunshine  passed  away, 
And  lovely  summer  songsters  that  have  fled. 

And  lonesome  in  a  haunt  of  withered  vines, 
Amid  the  flutter  of  her  withered  leaves, 

Pale  Summer  for  her  perished  kingdom  pines, 
And  all  the  glories  of  her  golden  sheaves. 


462     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

In  vain  October  wooes  her  to  remain 
Within  the  palace  of  his  scarlet  bowers, 

Entreats  her  to  forget  her  heartbreak  pain, 
And  weep  no  more  about  her  faded  flowers. 

At  last  November,  like  a  conqueror,  comes 

To  storm  the  golden  city  of  his  foe ; 
We  hear  his  rude  winds,  like  the  roll  of  drums, 

Bringing  their  desolation  and  their  woe. 

The  sunset,  like  a  vast  vermilion  flood, 
Splashes  its  giant  glowing  waves  on  high, 

The  forest  flames  with  foliage  red  as  blood, 
A  conflagration  sweeping  to  the  sky. 

Then  all  the  treasures  of  that  brilliant  state 
Are  gathered  in  a  mighty  funeral  pyre ; 

October,  like  a  king  resigned  to  fate, 
Dies  in  his  forests,  with  their  sunset  fire. 


SURVIVALS  OF  OLD   BRITISH   BALLADS 
BARBARA  ALLEN 

There  was  a  young  man  who  lived  in  our  town, 

His  given  name  was  William ; 
He  was  taken  sick,  and  very  sick, 

And  death  was  in  his  dwelling. 

It  was  the  merry  month  of  May, 
When  the  green  buds  were  swelling, 

Sweet  William  on  his  deathbed  lay 
For  the  love  of  Barbara  Allen. 


SURVIVALS  OF  OLD  BRITISH  BALLADS        463 

He  sent  his  servant  down  in  town ; 

He  went  into  her  dwelling  : 
"  My  master  's  sick,  and  sent  for  you, 

If  your  name  be  Barbara  Allen." 

And  slowly,  slowly  did  she  rise, 

And  slowly  she  went  to  him, 
And  all  she  said  when  she  got  there, 

"  Young  man,  I  think  you  are  dying." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I'm  sick,  I'm  very  sick, 

And  death  is  with  me,  darling, 
I  '11  die,  I  '11  die,  I  '11  surely  die, 

If  I  don't  get  Barbara  Allen." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are  sick,  and  very  sick, 

And  death  is  in  your  dwelling ; 
You  '11  die,  you  '11  die,  you  '11  surely  die, 

For  you  will  never  get  Barbara  Allen. 

"  Remember  on  last  Wednesday  night 

When  we  were  at  a  wedding, 
You  passed  your  wine  to  the  girls  all  around 

And  slighted  Barbara  Allen." 

He  turned  his  pale  face  to  the  wall, 

He  turned  his  back  upon  her : 
"  Adieu,  adieu  to  the  friends  all  around, 

And  adieu  to  Barbara  Allen." 

She  had  not  got  ten  miles  from  town, 
When  she  heard  a  swamp  bird  singing ; 

And  every  time  the  swamp  bird  sung 
Was  woe  to  Barbara  Allen. 


464     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

She  had  not  got  three  miles  from  town, 
When  she  heard  a  death  bell  ringing, 

And  in  her  ear  it  seemed  to  say, 
"  Hard-hearted  Barbara  Allen." 

She  looked  to  the  east,  and  she  looked  to  the  west, 
And  she  saw  his  corpse  a-coming ; 

"  I  could  have  saved  that  young  man's  life 
By  giving  him  Barbara  Allen  !  " 

"  O  mother,  O  mother,  go  make  my  bed, 

Make  it  of  tears  and  sorrow ; 
Sweet  William  died  for  me  to-day, 

And  I  will  die  for  him  to-morrow. 

"  O  father,  O  father,  go  dig  my  grave, 

Dig  it  deep  and  narrow  ; 
Sweet  William  died  for  true  love's  sake, 

And  'I  shall  die  of  sorrow." 

Sweet  William  died  on  Saturday  night, 

And  Barbara  died  on  Sunday ; 
Her  mother  died  for  the  love  of  both 

And  was  buried  alone  on  Monday. 

Sweet  William  was  buried  in  the  new  churchyard, 

And  Barbara  beside  him  : 
And  out  of  his  grave  sprang  a  lily-white  rose, 

And  out  of  hers  a  briar. 

LORD  THOMAS  AND   FAIR  ELEANOR 

Lord  Thomas,  he  was  a  bold  forester, 

And  a  chaser  of  the  king's  deer, 
Fair  Eleanor,  she  was  a  brave  woman, 

Lord  Thomas,  he  loved  her  dear ! 


SURVIVALS  OF  OLD  BRITISH   BALLADS        465 

"  Now,  riddle  my  riddle,  dear  Mother,''  he  cried, 

"  And  riddle  it  all  into  one : 
For  whether  to  marry  the  Fair  Eleanor, 

Or  to  bring  you  the  Brown  Girl  home  ?  " 

"  The  Brown  Girl,  she  hath  both  houses  and  lands, 

Fair  Eleanor,  she  hath  none  : 
Therefore  I  charge  you,  upon  my  blessing, 

To  bring  me  the  Brown  Girl  home !  " 

He  clothed  himself  in  gallant  attire, 

His  merrymen  all  in  green, 
And  every  borough  that  he  rode  through, 

They  took  him  to  be  some  king. 

And  when  he  reached  Fair  Eleanor's  bower, 

He  knocked  thereat,  therein. 
And  who  so  ready  as  Fair  Eleanor 

To  let  Lord  Thomas  in  ? 

"  What  news  ?   What  news,  Lord  Thomas  ?  "    she  cried, 

"  What  news  dost  thou  bring  unto  me  ?  " 
"  I  come  to  bid  thee  to  my  wedding, 

And  that  is  sad  news  for  thee !  " 

"  Now  Heaven  forbid,  Lord  Thomas,"  she  cried, 

"  That  any  such  thing  should  be  done ! 
I  thought  to  have  been,  myself,  thy  bride, 

And  thou  to  have  been  the  bridegroom  !  " 

"  Now,  riddle  my  riddle,  dear  Mother,"  she  cried, 

"  And  riddle  it  all  into  one  : 
For  whether  to  go  to  Lord  Thomas's  wedding, 

Or  whether  I  tarry  at  home  ?  " 


466     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"  There  be  many  that  be  thy  friend,  Daughter, 

But  a  thousand  be  thy  foe : 
Therefore  I  charge  thee,  upon  my  blessing, 

To  Lord  Thomas's  wedding  don't  go  !  " 

"  There  be  many  that  be  my  friend,  Mother, 

Though  a  thousand  be  my  foe : 
So,  betide  my  life,  betide  my  death, 

To  Lord  Thomas's  wedding  I  '11  go !  " 

She  decked  herself  in  gallant  attire, 

Her  tiremen  all  in  green, 
And  every  borough  that  she  rode  through, 

They  took  her  to  be  some  queen. 

And  when  she  reached  Lord  Thomas's  door, 

She  knocked  thereat,  therein, 
And  who  so  ready  as  Lord  Thomas 

To  let  Fair  Eleanor  in  ? 

"  Be  this  your  bride,  Lord  Thomas  ? "  she  cried, 
"  Methinks  she  looks  wondrous  brown  ! 

Thou  mightest  have  had  as  fair  a  woman 
As  ever  the  sun  shone  on !  " 

"  Despise  her  not,  Fair  Ellen  !  "  he  cried. 

"  Despise  her  not  unto  me ! 
For  better  I  love  thy  little  finger 

Than  all  of  her  whole  body  !  " 

The  Brown  Girl,  she  had  a  little  penknife, 

Which  was  both  long  and  sharp, 
And  between  the  broad  ribs  and  the  short, 

She  pierced  Fair  Eleanor's  heart ! 


SURVIVALS  OF  OLD   BRITISH   BALLADS        467 

"  O  art  thou  blind,  Lord  Thomas  ?  "  she  cried, 

"  Or  canst  thou  not  plainly  see 
My  own  heart's  blood  run  trickling  down, 

Run  trickling  down  to  my  knee  ?  " 

Lord  Thomas,  he  had  a  sword  at  his  side, 

And  as  he  walked  up  the  hall, 
He  cut  the  bride's  head  from  her  shoulders, 

And  flung  it  against  the  wall ! 

He  placed  the  hilt  against  the  ground, 

The  point  against  his  heart ! 
So  never  three  lovers  together  did  meet, 

And  sooner  again  did  part  ! 

They  buried  Fair  Ellen  beneath  an  oak  tree, 
Lord  Thomas  beneath  the  church  spire, 

And  out  of  her  bosom  there  grew  a  red  rose, 
And  out  of  her  lover's  a  briar ! 

They  grew  and  grew,  till  they  reached  the  church  top, 
They  grew  till  they  reached  the  church  spire, 

And  there  they  entwined,  in  a  true  lover's  knot, 
For  true  lovers  all  to  admire ! 

THE   HANGMAN'S  TREE 

"  Hangman,  hangman,  howd  yo  hand, 

O  howd  it  wide  and  far ! 
For  theer  I  see  my  father  cooming 

Riding  through  the  air. 

"  Father,  father,  ha  yo  brought  me  goold  ? 

Ha  yo  paid  my  fee  ? 
Or  ha  yo  coom  to  see  me  hung 

Beneath  the  hangman's  tree  ?  " 


468     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

"  I  ha  naw  brought  yo  goold, 

I  ha  naw  paid  yo  fee, . 
But  I  ha  coom  to  see  yo  hung 

Beneath  the  hangman's  tree." 

"  Hangman,  hangman,  howd  yo  hand, 

0  howd  it  wide  and  far  1 

For  theer  I  see  my  mother  cooming 
Riding  through  the  air. 

"  Mother,  mother,  ha  yo  brought  me  goold  ? 

Ha  yo  paid  my  fee  ? 
Or  ha  yo  coom  to  see  me  hung 

Beneath  the  hangman's  tree  ?  " 

"  I  ha  naw  brought  yo  goold, 

1  ha  naw  paid  yo  fee, 

But  I  ha  coom  to  see  yo  hung 
Beneath  the  hangman's  tree." 

"  Hangman,  hangman,  howd  yo  hand, 

0  howd  it  wide  and  far ! 

For  theer  I  see  my  sister  cooming 
Riding  through  the  air. 

"  Sister,  sister,  ha  yo  brought  me  goold  ? 

Ha  yo  paid  my  fee  ? 
Or  ha  yo  coom  to  see  me  hung 

Beneath  the  hangman's  tree  ?  " 

"  I  ha  naw  brought  yo  goold, 

1  ha  naw  paid  yo  fee, 

But  I  ha  coom  to  see  yo  hung 
Beneath  the  hangman's  tree." 


SURVIVALS  OF  OLD  BRITISH   BALLADS        469 

"  Hangman,  hangman,  howd  yo  hand, 

O  howd  it  wide  and  far ! 
For  theer  I  see  my  sweetheart  cooming 

Riding  through  the  air. 

"  Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  ha  yo  brought  me  goold  ? 

Ha  yo  paid  my  fee  ? 
Or  ha  yo  coom  to  see  me  hung 

Beneath  the  hangman's  tree  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  ha  brought  yo  goold, 

And  I  ha  paid  yo  fee, 
And  I  ha  coom  to  take  yo  froom 

Beneath  the  hangman's  tree." 

THE  WIFE   OF   USHER'S  WELL 

There  was  a  lady  fair  and  gay, 

And  children  she  had  three : 
She  sent  them  away  to  some  northern  land, 

For  to  learn  their  grameree. 

They  had  n't  been  gone  but  a  very  short  time, 

About  three  months  to  a  day, 
When  sickness  came  unto  that  land 

And  swept  those  babies  away. 

There  is  a  King  in  the  heavens  above 

That  wears  a  golden  crown  : 
She  prayed  that  He  would  send  her  babies  home 

To-night  or  in  the  morning  soon. 

It  was  about  one  Christmas  time, 

When  the  night  was  long  and  cool, 
She  dreamed  of  her  three  little  lonely  babes 

Come  running  in  their  mother's  room. 


4/0     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

The  table  was  fixed  and  the  cloth  was  spread, 

And  on  it  put  bread  and  wine : 
"  Come  sit  you  down,  my  three  little  babes, 

And  eat  and  drink  of  mine." 


"  We  will  neither  eat  your  bread,  dear  mother, 
Nor  we  '11  neither  drink  your  wine  ; 

For  to  our  Saviour  we  must  return 
To-night  or  in  the  morning  soon." 

The  bed  was  fixed  in  the  back  room ; 

On  it  was  some  clean  white  sheet, 
And  on  the  top  was  a  golden  cloth, 

To  make  those  little  babies  sleep. 

"  Wake  up  !  wake  up  !  "  says  the  oldest  one, 

"  Wake  up  !  its  almost  day. 
And  to  our  Saviour  we  must  return 

To-night  or  in  the  morning  soon. 

"  Green  grass  grows  at  our  head,  dear  mother, 

Green  moss  grows  at  our  feet ; 
The  tears  that  you  shed  for  us  three  babes, 

Won't  wet  our  winding  sheet." 


GEORGE   COLLINS 

George  Collins  rode  home  one  cold  winter  night, 
George  Collins  rode  home  so  fine, 

George  Collins  rode  home  one  cold  winter  night, 
He  taken  sick  and  died. 


SURVIVALS  OF  OLD  BRITISH  BALLADS        471 

A  fair  young  lady  in  her  father's  house 

A-sewing  her  silk  so  fine 
And  when  she  heard  that  George  was  dead 

She  threw  it  down  and  cried. 

"  O  daughter,  don't  weep  !  O  daughter,  don't  mourn  ! 

There  are  more  boys  than  one." 
"  O  mother  dear !  he  has  my  heart, 

And  now  he 's  dead  and  gone. 

"  The  happiest  hours  I  ever  spent 

Were  when  I  was  by  his  side ; 
The  saddest  news  I  ever  heard 

Was  when  George  Collins  died." 

She  followed  him  up,  she  followed  him  down ; 

She  followed  him  to  his  grave, 
And  there  she  fell  on  her  bended  knees ; 

She  wept ;  she  mourned  ;  she  prayed. 

"  Unscrew  the  coffin  ;  lay  back  the  lid  ; 

Roll  down  the  linen  so  fine ; 
And  let  me  kiss  his  cold  pale  lips, 

For  I  know  he  will  never  kiss  mine." 


NOTES 

INTRODUCTION 

LITERATURE  IN  THE  COLONIAL  SOUTH 

Although  the  limits  placed  upon  this  volume  preclude  selections 
from  the  colonial  writers  of  the  South,  yet  some  account  of  their  work 
is  a  necessary  introduction  to  the  later  literature.  From  the  earliest 
days  of  the  Virginia  colony  there  was  considerable  activity  in  writing. 
The  first  book  written  in  Virginia,  though  published  away,  was  Captain 
John  Smith's  "A  True  Relation  of  Virginia,"  written  in  1608.  A  later 
book,  written  during  his  stay  in  Virginia,  was  entitled  "  A  Map  of  Vir 
ginia."  Both  of  these  books  were  descriptive  of  the  country  and  the 
Indians,  and  as  the  writer  was  a  keen  observer  and  a  graphic  narrator, 
his  accounts  are  interesting.  In  1610  William  Strachey,  secretary  of 
the  Virginia  colony,  wrote  at  Jamestown  and  sent  to  London  for  publi 
cation  his  "  A  True  Repertory  of  the  Wrack  and  Redemption  of  Sir 
Thomas  Gates,  Knight,  upon  and  from  the  Islands  of  the  Burmudas." 
This  was  an  account  of  the  disaster  by  a  member  of  the  expedition  that 
accompanied  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  and  is  memorable  for  a  vivid  descrip 
tion  of  a  storm  at  sea.  It  is  commonly  thought  that  this  book  may  have 
been  a  source  of  suggestion  to  Shakespeare  for  the  opening  incident 
of  his  play  "  The  Tempest,"  there  being  interesting  parallels  between 
the  two  accounts.  The  earliest  poetry  written  in  Virginia  was  a  transla 
tion  of  ten  books  of  Ovid's  "  Metamorphoses,"  made  by  George  Sandys 
during  his  stay  in  the  colony  as  its  treasurer.  But  these  writers  may 
hardly  be  claimed  as  American  writers.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  were 
Englishmen,  who  eventually  went  back  to  their  English  home,  writing 
for  Englishmen  in  order  to  describe  what  they  had  seen  and  felt  in  the 
new  country. 

It  seems,  therefore,  on  the  whole  more  fitting  to  place  the  beginning 
of  literature  in  the  South  at  the  time  when  native-born  writers  began  to 

473 


474     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

write  for  their  countrymen  and  to  take  for  their  subject  matter  local 
history,  politics,  and  conditions.  One  of  the  first  evidences  of  a  growth 
of  national  consciousness  was  the  popular  uprising  of  1676  known  as 
Bacon's  Rebellion.  This  gave  to  the  people  a  national  hero  and  a 
realization  of  independence  of  England,  not  only  geographically,  but 
politically.  From  this  event  the  colonists  began  to  talk  of  Virginia  as 
their  mother  state.  The  literature  that  was  produced  in  the  hundred 
years  following  Bacon's  Rebellion  bears  strong  traces  of  this  new  spirit. 
While  much  of  it  continued  to  be  of  a  descriptive  and  historical  char 
acter,  yet  a  good  deal  of  it  was  of  a  political  kind  inspired  by  local  or 
intercolonial  disputes.  Virginia  produced  more  of  this  literature  than 
any  other  colony,  but  in  the  course  of  time  other  colonies,  such  as 
Maryland,  North  Carolina,  South  Carolina,  and  Georgia,  made  their 
contributions. 

In  the  anonymous  Burwell  Papers  an  account  is  given  of  the  first  great 
thrill  in  colonial  life  —  Bacon's  Rebellion.  In  Colonel  William  Byrd 
one  discovers  the  most  sprightly  and  interesting  writer  in  the  colonies 
before  Franklin.  In  Robert  Beverley  one  perceives  the  country  gentle 
man  interested  not  only  in  his  plantation  but  interested  also  in  its  past 
history  and  its  present  economic  and  social  conditions.  These  are  but 
a  few  of  the  more  readable  of  those  who  illustrate  the  awakened  interest 
in  local  life.  As  might  be  expected  these  writers  imitated  in  their  style 
and  literary  methods  the  writers  of  England.  In  the  eighteenth  century 
the  periodical  essays  of  Addison  and  Steele  had  set  the  fashion  for  a 
type  of  light  and  delicately  neat  prose,  and  it  is  possible  that  Southern 
writers  would  have  gone  on  to  a  literature  of  manners  and  customs  that 
would  have  approached  the  observant,  personal,  and  quaintly  humorous 
manner  of  The  Tatler,  The  Spectator,  and  other  essays  of  the  same  kind. 
But  the  great  political  questions  connected  with  the  Revolution  even 
tually  absorbed  the  intellectual  life  of  the  Southern  colonists.  The  stress 
of  these  events  did  not  produce  much  that  could,  in  the  narrower  sense 
of  the  term,  be  called  literature,  but  in  the  writings  of  the  time  there  is 
such  a  vivid  reflection  of  what  the  people  were  thinking  and  feeling 
that  the  words  of  orators  and  political  writers  have  the  imaginative  lift 
of  literature.  Men  like  Richard  Henry  Lee  and  Patrick  Henry,  among 
the  orators,  and  Thomas  Jefferson,  James  Madison,  and  George  Wash 
ington,  among  the  political  writers,  were  some  of  those  who  produced 
contributions  that  it  is  difficult  to  avoid  calling  literature. 


NOTES  475 


PART  I.    THE  OLD  SOUTH  IN  LITERATURE 

Following  the  Revolution  came  the  great  material  development  of 
the  country,  and  in  connection  with  this  a  great  intellectual  and  literary 
development  in  the  Northern  states.  But  in  the  South  the  social  and 
economic  conditions  continued  to  be  those  of  a  rural  aristocracy  based 
on  slavery.  While  such  a  life  was  full  of  graciousness  and  hospitality 
and  all  the  high  social  virtues  that  come  of  a  feudal  aristocracy,  it 
nevertheless  tended  towards  conservatism  and  individualism.  These 
qualities  operated  strongly  in  the  interval  between  the  Revolution  and 
the  Civil  War  to  make  the  country  gentleman  of  the  South  desire  to 
have  things  remain  as  they  were  politically  and  economically.  They  also 
made  him  see  intensely  the  claims  of  his  own  state  and  section  to  the 
exclusion  of  others,  such  a  feeling  culminating  in  the  doctrine  of  state 
rights.  Another  marked  condition  in  Southern  life  in  this  period  was 
a  stunting  poverty  of  popular  education.  The  children  of  rich  families 
had  private  tutors  and  were  able  to  attend  college,  but  the  great  mass 
of  the  common  people  were  without  the  most  rudimentary  education. 

Such  conditions  tended  to  retard  intellectual  and  literary  develop- 
ment.yJSVhen  the  North  was  producing  the  Knickerbocker  school, 
represented  by  Irving,  Bryant,  and  Cooper,  and  the  New  England 
group  of  writers  among  whom  were  Hawthorne  and  Emerson,  the 
South  was,  comparatively  speaking,  producing  a  meager  amount  of 
literature.  But  the  chief  cause  of  lack  of  literary  development  in  the 
old  South  was  that  the  South  expended  its  intellectual  life  in  oratory 
at  the  county  courthouse  or  the  state  capitol  or  the  halls  of  Congress. 
Such  notable  names  and  interesting  personalities  as  Pinckney,  Walsh, 
Houston,  Preston,  Randolph,  Clay,  Calhoun,  Benton,  and  Hayne  be 
long  to  the  group  of  antebellum  orators  and  statesmen. 

The  orators  of  the  old  South  have  not  been  excelled  in  our  national  history. 
They  were  clever  debaters  on  the  science  and  art  of  statecraft.  They  diligently 
studied  public  questions,  they  had  read  the  classic  orators,  and  they  constructed 
their  speeches  on  the  best  models  of  that  ancient  art.  In  these  old  Southern 
statesmen  the  finest  tradition  of  the  school  of  Burke  and  Pitt  and  Fox  still  lived. 
Thus  the  energy  of  the  most  gifted  men  was  spent  on  political  discussion  ;  the 
old-time  Southerner  was  a  politician  by  instinct  and  training,  and  his  ambition 
was  political.  To  him  the  spoken  word  was  more  than  the  written  word.  Con 
sequently  he  sought  preferment  at  the  bar,  on  the  bench,  in  the  forum,  and  not 
in  the  world  of  letters.1 

1  Metcalf,  "  American  Literature,"  page  257. 


4/6     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 
ESSAYISTS  AND  DESCRIPTIVE  WRITERS 

It  is  strange  that  the  South,  with  its  fondness  for  the  literature  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  did  not  produce  more  essayists,  especially  after 
the  manner  of  Addison  and  Steele's  The  Tatler  and  The  Spectator. 
As  it  is,  William  Wirt  is  almost  the  only  writer  of  this  form.  Others, 
however,  have  left,  incidentally  to  other  purposes,  as  the  selections 
below  from  "Crockett,  Audubon,  and  Elliott  show,  vivid  descriptions 
of  certain  phases  of  Southern  life. 

WILLIAM  WIRT 

This  and  the  following  selection  have  been  taken  from  Wirt's 
"  Letters  of  the  British  Spy."  This  book  of  essays  pretended  to  be 
copies  of  letters  written  by  a  young  Englishman  of  rank,  during  a  tour 
of  the  United  States,  to  a  member  of  the  English  Parliament.  The 
letters  presented,  in  the  leisurely  eighteenth-century  fashion  of  Addison, 
geographical  descriptions,  delineations  of  public  men,  moral  and  politi 
cal  discussions,  and  literary  views.  The  value  of  the  book  to  the  pres 
ent  generation  lies  chiefly  in  the  fact  that  it  shows  how  the  eighteenth 
century  ruled  in  the  mind  of  a  Southerner  at  the  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  century. 

THE  BRITISH  SPY'S  OPINION  OF  THE  SPECTATOR  (PAGE  i) 

The  Spectator:  the  series  of  periodical  essays  written  by  Addison 
and  Steele.  —  Bacon:  Francis  Bacon,  the  English  philosopher  and 
statesman  of  the  Elizabethan  age.  —  Boyle :  Robert  Boyle,  a  noted 
English  scientific  and  philosophical  writer  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

QUESTIONS,  i .  What  literary  ideals  does  the  writer  approve  ?  2.  Were 
these  ideals  passing  away  in  England  and  in  other  sections  of  the 
United  States  while  surviving  in  the  South  ? 

AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  PREACHER  (PAGE  4) 

The  preacher  is  said  to  have  been  Rev.  James  Waddell,  a  noted 
Presbyterian  preacher  of  Virginia  who  in  his  latter  years  was  blind. 

Orange :  a  county  in  Virginia. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Describe  the  preacher  and  his  preaching.  2.  Has  the 
South  been  noted  for  the  production  of  preachers  of  exceptional  power  ? 


NOTES  477 

DAVID  CROCKETT 

This  selection  is  from  "The  Life  of  David  Crockett  by  Himself"  — 
an  autobiography  written  in  order  to  correct  false  impressions  about 
the  writer.  After  Crockett's  election  to  Congress  his  eccentricities  of 
dress  and  manner  made  him  a  notable  figure  in  Washington,  and  a 
publisher  seized  the  occasion  to  issue,  in  1834,  an  anonymous  book 
entitled  "  Sketches  and  Eccentricities  of  Colonel  David  Crockett," 
without  the  latter's  approval.  To  correct  the  impressions  of  this  book, 
Crockett,  now  nearing  fifty,  set  to  work  to  write  the  story  of  his  life 
and  produced  a  book  which,  in  spite  of  literary  deficiencies,  is  one  of 
the  most  racy  and  amusing  books  of  its  kind.  His  achievement  is  all 
the  more  remarkable  because  he  did  not  learn  to  write  until,  when 
nearly  thirty,  an  appointment  as  justice  of  the  peace  compelled  him 
to  do  so  in  a  degree  sufficient  to  keep  his  records  and  to  draw  legal 
papers.  Bear  hunts,  Indian  fights,  and  other  thrilling  adventures  make 
up  the  contents  of  the  book,  and  in  spite  of  inelegancies  of  expression 
it  gives  a  good  picture  of  pioneer  life. 

THE  BEAR  HUNT  (PAGE  8) 

harricane  :  canebrake.  —  cracks:  caused  by  earthquakes. 
QUESTION.    What  methods,   according  to  this  selection,  were  em 
ployed  in  hunting  bears  ? 

JOHN  JAMES  AUDUBON 

This  selection  is  from  the  journal  in  which  Audubon  recorded  not 
merely  details  relating  to  his  scientific  interests,  but  many  adventures 
and  sketches  of  the  country  and  its  inhabitants  in  the  sections  visited 
by  him. 

EARLY  SETTLERS  ALONG  THE  MISSISSIPPI  (PAGE  14) 

The  scene  of  this  sketch  is  the  swamps  of  Louisiana,  which  in 
Audubon's  time  were  very  sparsely  settled. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  causes  induced  the  squatters  to  leave  their 
homes?  2.  How  did  they  travel?  3.  What  obstacles  did  they  over 
come  in  their  new  homes  ?  4.  WThat  qualities  caused  them  to  prosper  ? 
5.  Has  the  South  retained  or  lost  such  qualities  among  its  white 
working  classes  ? 


4/8     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

WILLIAM  ELLIOTT 

Elliott's  "Carolina  Sports  by  Land  and  Water,"  from  which  this 
selection  is  taken,  belongs  to  the  type  of  literature  of  which  Izaak  Wal 
ton's  "The  Complete  Angler"  is  the  undisputed  head.  Elliott's  book  is 
in  two  parts  :  the  first  gives  interesting  narratives  of  the  author's  adven 
tures  in  connection  with  fishing ;  the  second  is  devoted  to  experiences 
in  hunting  wildcats,  deer,  and  other  game.  The  setting  for  it  was  the 
coastal  section  of  South  Carolina  southeast  of  Charleston. 

A  DEER  HUNT  (PAGE  19) 

malice  prepense :    premeditated  malice. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  details  regarding  the  hunting  of  deer  does  this 
selection  give  ?  2.  How  is  vividness  secured  in  the  account  ? 

Other  Essayists  and  Descriptive  Writers.  Worthy  of  mention  but  impossible 
of  representation  in  this  volume  are  the  following  writers  :  South  Carolina  .  Hugh 
Swinton  Legare  (1797-1843),  Henry  J.  Nott  (1797-1837),  Caroline  Howard  Oil 
man  (1794-1888),  Louisa  Susannah  McCord  (1810-1879);  Alabama:  Octavia 
Walton  LeVert  (1810-1877). 

ROMANCERS  AND  STORY  WRITERS 

The  writing  of  romantic  fiction  in  the  old  South  was  centered  mainly 
in  the  fifteen  years  between  1835  and  1850.  This  was  the  period  of  ex 
pansion  for  the  South  in  two  directions.  In  the  region  of  ideas  many 
great  questions  were  coming  to  the  front  for  settlement,  and  in  the  field 
of  material  conquest  the  settlement  of  the  rich  Southwest  was  going 
on.  Under  the  stimulus  of  these  conditions  men  began  to  realize  the 
wealth  of  material  in  Southern  history  and  traditions,  and  began  to 
work  it  into  fiction. 

The  spirit  in  which  this  work  was  done  was  imitative  of  what  was 
being  done  in  fiction  in  England  and  in  the  New  England  States,  In 
England,  under  the  influence  of  the  romantic  movement,  the  novel  had 
developed  into  the  romance  of  historical  imagination  represented  by 
Scott's  Waverley  series.  In  New  England,  fiction  began  toward  the  end 
of  the  eighteenth  century  and  followed  the  tendencies  of  fiction  in 
England,  until  its  early  development  culminated  in  the  romances  of 
Cooper,  who  practically  created  the  American  frontier  story  and  the 
American  historical  novel.  The  success  of  Cooper's  work  stimulated 


NOTES  479 

writers  in  the  South  to  follow  in  his  footsteps,  and  rapidly  romances  of 
the  same  general  type,  with  Southern  incidents  as  their  basis,  came  into 
existence.  The  foremost  antebellum  writers  of  fiction  in  the  South 
were  Poe,  Simms,  Kennedy,  and  Cooke.  Of  these  the  last  three  are  to 
be  grouped  together  as  representing  the  interest  in  writing  historical 
romances.  Poe  stands  apart  from  these  in  the  methods  and  ideals 
followed  in  his  tales. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

It  has  been  so  long  popular  to  think  of  Poe  as  "  a  world  artist,  unre 
lated  to  his  local  origin,  unindebted  to  it,"  that  it  may  seem  almost 
absurd  to  look  for  any  representation  of  Southern  life  in  Poe's  stories. 
Nevertheless,  so  distinguished  a  critic  as  Professor  Woodberry  holds 
that  Poe  is  as  much  a  product  of  the  South  as  Whittier  was  of  New 
England.  As  he  puts  it,  "  His  breeding  and  education  were  Southern  ; 
his  manners,  habits  of  thought,  and  moods  of  feeling  were  Southern  ; 
his  sentimentalism,  his  conception  of  womanhood  and  its  qualities,  of 
manhood  and  its  behavior,  his  weaknesses  of  character,  have  the  stamp 
of  his  origin ;  his  temperament,  even  his  sensibilities,  his  gloom  and 
dream,  his  response  to  color  and  music,  were  of  his  race  and  place." 

THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  (PAGE  28) 

This  story,  first  published  in  1839,  is  generally  accepted  as,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  craftsmanship,  Poe's  finest  tale. 

ennuye  :  wearied,  bored.  —  Von  Weber  :  A  German  composer  of  the 
late  eighteenth  and  early  nineteenth  centuries.  —  Fuseli :  a  Swiss  artist 
who  lived  from  1742  to  1825,  and  who  painted  a  series  of  imaginative 
pictures  illustrating  Shakespeare  and  Milton.  —  "The  Haunted  Pal 
ace":  the  allegorical  significance  is  plainly  hinted  at.  The  word  Por- 
phyrogene  in  line  22  of  the  poem  on  page  38  is  formed  from  two  Greek 
words,  meaning  "  purple  "  and  "  begotten  "  ;  hence  born  in  the  purple, 
royal. 

Watson,  etc. :  these  are  the  names  of  obscure  scientists,  more  prom 
inent  in  Poe's  day  than  in  the  present.  —  Satyrs  and  .ffigipans :  in 
classical  mythology  the  satyrs  were  creatures  with  the  body  of  a  man 
and  the  feet,  hair,  and  horns  of  a  goat ;  agipans  is  an  epithet  of  Pan,  the 
satyr-like  rural  god.  —  Gothic  :  the  black-letter  type  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
—  VigUi(£.  Mortuorum,  etc.:  "Vigils  for  the  Dead  according  to  the 


480     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Choir  of  the  Church  of  Mayence."  —  "Mad  Trist"  of  Sir  Launcelot 
Canning  :  no  book  with  this  title  is  known,  and  the  title  was  undoubt 
edly  coined  by  Poe  and  the  quotations  invented  by  him  to  fit  the 
context. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  effect  does  Poe  evidently  seek  to  produce  in 
this  story?  2.  Show  whether  the  parts  are  skillfully  related  to  one 
another  and  to  the  whole.  3.  In  what  respects  is  the  story  character 
istic  of  the  South  ?  4.  Can  the  description  of  U^her  be  taken  as  self- 
portraiture  on  Poe's  part  ? 

JOHN  PENDLETON  KENNEDY 

These  selections  are  taken  from  "  Swallow  Barn,  or  a  Sojourn  in  the 
Old  Dominion,"  published  in  1832.  The  author's  design  was  to  present 
sketches  descriptive  of  country  life  in  Virginia,  in  a  series  of  letters 
supposed  to  be  written  by  Mark  Littleton  to  a  friend  in  New  York,  giv 
ing  his  impressions  of  a  Virginia  home  which  he  is  visiting.  So  desul 
tory  is  the  book  in  its  manner  that  it  can  hardly  be  called  a  novel.  Its 
best  description  is  in  the  words  of  the  preface,  "  a  series  of  detached 
sketches  linked  together  by  the  hooks  and  eyes  of  a  traveler's  notes  . .  . 
and  may  be  described  as  variously  and  interchangeably  partaking  of  the 
complexion  of  a  book  of  travel,  a  diary,  a  collection  of  letters,  a  drama, 
and  a  history."  Nevertheless,  the  author  has  succeeded  in  presenting 
a  full  picture  of  life  in  the  old  homesteads  on  the  James  River. 

SELECTIONS  FROM  "  SWALLOW  BARN  " 
SWALLOW  BARN,  AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  ESTATE  (PAGE  50) 

chevaux-de-frise:  a  contrivance  consisting  of  pieces  of  timber  with 
spikes  of  iron  used  to  defend  a  passage. 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  SWALLOW  BARN  (PAGE  57) 
tertian  :  an  intermittent  fever  which  returns  every  three  days. 

TRACES  OF  THE  FEUDAL  SYSTEM  (PAGE  59) 

rod  of  Aaron:  the  wonder-working  rod  used  by  Moses  and  Aaron. 
See  Bible,  Book  of  Exodus.  —  Mr.  Chub:  a  parson  who  has  charge 
of  the  school  on  the  Meriwether  estate.  —  Mr.  Burke:  the  celebrated 
English  orator  and  statesman  of  the  eighteenth  century.  —  Rip :  the 
thirteen-year-old  son  of  the  Meriwethers. 


NOTES  481 

THE  QUARTER  (PAGE  64) 

chapeau  de  bras :  a  type  of  military  helmet. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  is  said  of  the  house,  Swallow  Barn?  2.  What  of 
the  surrounding  buildings  ?  3.  How  extensive  was  the  estate  ?  4.  What 
were  the  products  of  the  plantation  ?  5.  Describe  the  appearance  and 
character  of  the  owner,  Frank  Meriwether ;  of  Mrs.  Meriwether. 
6.  Does  the  account  of  the  negro  quarters  show  that  the  slaves  were 
happy  and  contented?  7.  In  what  ways  did  the  life  on  these  old 
estates  evidence  traces  of  the  feudal  system  ?  8.  Discuss  whether  such 
a  condition  was  a  help  or  a  hindrance  to  the  development  of  the  South. 

SELECTIONS  FROM  "  HORSESHOE  ROBINSON  " 

Very  different  from  the  leisurely  "  Swallow  Barn "  is  Kennedy's 
stirring  romance  of  the  Revolution,  "Horseshoe  Robinson."  In  the 
introduction  Kennedy  has  told  the  circumstances  under  which  he  formed 
the  acquaintance  of  the  principal  character  and  came  into  possession 
of  the  leading  incidents  of  the  novel.  On  a  visit  to  the  western  section 
of  South  Carolina  in  1819,  he  spent  the  night  at  a  house  where  he  met 
Horseshoe  Robinson,  then  an  old  man,  who  had  been  summoned  to 
give  relief  to  a  boy  who  had  dislocated  his  shoulder  in  a  fall  from 
a  horse.  "Horseshoe,"  says  Kennedy,  "yielded  himself  to  my  leading 
and  I  got  out  of  him  a  rich  stock  of  adventure,  of  which  his  life  was 
full.  It  was  long  after  midnight  before  our  party  broke  up  ;  and  when 
I  got  to  my  bed  it  was  to  dream  of  Horseshoe  and  his  adventures.  I 
made  a  record  of  what  he  told  me,  whilst  the  memory  of  it  was  still 
fresh,  and  often  afterwards  reverted  to  it,  when  accident  or  intentional 
research  brought  into  my  view  events  connected  with  the  times  and 
scenes  to  which  this  story  had  reference." 

Kennedy  also  adds  that  after  the  publication  of  the  novel  in  1835  ne 
commissioned  a  friend  to  send  the  old  man  —  who  had  by  that  time 
moved  to  Alabama  —  a  copy  of  the  book.  "  The  report  brought  me 
was  that  the  old  man  listened  very  attentively  to  the  reading  of  it,  and 
took  a  great  interest  in  it. 

"'What  do  you  say  to  all  of  this?' was  the  question  addressed  to 
him  after  the  reading  was  finished.  His  reply  is  a  voucher  which  I 
desire  to  preserve  :  '  It  is  all  true  and  right  —  in  its  right  place  —  ex 
cepting  about  them  women,  which  I  disremember.  That  mought  be 
true,  too  ;  but  my  memory  is  treacherous  —  I  disremember.'  " 


482     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

HORSESHOE  ROBINSON  (PAGE  68) 

Gates  :  General  Horatio  Gates  of  the  American  army,  who  had  forced 
the  British  under  Burgoyne  to  surrender  after  the  battle  of  Saratoga  in 
1777.  In  1780  he  was  put  in  command  of  the  Southern  forces  of  the 
Revolutionary  army.  Owing  to  his  poor  generalship  his  forces  were 
defeated  near  Camden,  South  Carolina,  on  August  16,  1780,  by  Lord 
Cornwallis,  and  a  few  months  later  Gates  was  superseded  by  General 
Greene.  Gates  thereupon  retired  to  his  home  in  Virginia. 

HORSESHOE  CAPTURES  FIVE  PRISONERS  (PAGE  77) 
cock-a-whoop :  boastful. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  KING'S  MOUNTAIN  (PAGE  90) 

King's  Mountain :  a  ridge  rising  a  few  hundred  feet  above  the  sur 
rounding  country  just  within  the  limits  of  South  Carolina  and  about 
thirty  miles  southwest  of  Charlotte,  North  Carolina.  Here  was  fought 
on  October  7,  1780,  a  battle  between  the  English  and  Tory  force  of 
one  thousand  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  under  Lieutenant-Colonel 
Ferguson  and  about  one  thousand  Georgia,  North  Carolina,  South 
Carolina,  Tennessee,  and  Kentucky  backwoodsmen  under  William 
Campbell,  James  Williams,  Benjamin  Cleveland,  Isaac  Shelby,  and 
John  Sevier.  The  engagement  lasted  about  an  hour,  resulting  in  so  de 
cisive  a  defeat  for  the  English  that  Cornwallis  was  compelled  to  post 
pone  for  a  time  his  invasion  of  North  Carolina.  —  Froissart :  a  French 
chronicler  of  the  fourteenth  century. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  In  a  review  of  this  book  Poe  praised  the  character 
of  Horseshoe  Robinson  by  writing,  "  In  short,  he  is  the  man  of  all 
others  we  would  like  to  have  riding  by  our  side  in  any  very  hazardous 
adventure."  What  traits  of  character  does  Horseshoe  exhibit  that 
would  justify  this  opinion  ?  2.  Are  the  other  characters  vividly  enough 
drawn  to  enable  you  to  analyze  their  characteristics  ?  3.  What  levels  of 
Southern  society  are  represented  in  the  story  ?  4.  Give  some  of  the 
details  regarding  the  life  of  each  of  these  levels.  5.  What  impressions 
of  the  devotion  of  the  people  to  the  cause  of  liberty  are  given  ? 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 

Of  Simms's  numerous  novels  "  The  Yemassee,"  from  which  the 
selection  below  is  taken,  is  perhaps  his  nearest  approach  to  artistic 
success.  While  lacking  many  essential  points  of  greatness,  it  is  a  bold, 


NOTES  483 

spirited  romance,  full  of  invention  and  narrative  power.  If  considera 
tions  of  space  had  permitted,  some  selections  from  his  great  Revolu 
tionary  romance,  "  The  Partisan,"  would  have  been  included  in  this 
volume.  This  book  is  scarcely  less  interesting  and  successful  than 
"  The  Yemassee  "  and  portrays  the  same  period  of  history  as  Kennedy's 
"  Horseshoe  Robinson."  The  two  stories  are,  however,  by  no  means 
duplicates ;  Simms's  story  has  as  its  background  the  swamps  of  South 
Carolina  in  which  Marion,  the  "  Swamp  Fox,"  and  his  followers  found 
refuge. 

SELECTIONS  FROM  "  THE  YEMASSEE  " 
THE  ATTACK  ox  THE  BLOCK  HOUSE  (PAGE  105) 

The  blockhouse  was  a  familiar  means  of  defense  from  Indians  in  the 
early  days  of  settlement  in  America.  It  was  a  structure  built  of  stout 
logs,  in  which  were  loopholes  through  which  rifles  might  be  fired. 
This  particular  blockhouse  is  described  in  an  earlier  chapter  of  "  The 
Yemassee  "  as  consisting  of  two  stories,  the  lower  story  being  a  single 
apartment,  but  the  upper  story,  reached  by  a  ladder,  was  divided  into 
two  rooms,  one  of  which,  more  securely  built  than  the  other,  was  for 
the  protection  of  the  women  and  children. 

amour  propre :  vanity.  —  Ariel:  the  sprite  in  Shakespeare's  "The 
Tempest"  who  performs  the  bidding  of  Prospero. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  "What  preparations  for  defense  did  the  inmates  of 
the  blockhouse  make  ?  2.  "What  methods  of  attack  were  used  by  the 
Indians  ?  3.  "What  traits  of  character  did  Granger's  wife  display  ? 
4.  "Was  the  life  of  pioneer  days  conducive  to  giving  women  such 
qualities  of  character  as  she  shows  ? 

JOHN  ESTEX1  COOKE 

The  selections  here  given  are  from  "  The  Yirginia  Comedians." 
This  book,  published  in  1854,  is  generally  considered  the  best  of  the 
dozen  or  so  romances  written  by  Cooke  with  scenes  laid  in  colonial 
and  Revolutionary  times  and  in  the  Civil  "War.  Cooke's  aspirations  in 
this  story  were,  in  his  own  words,  "  to  paint  the  Yirginia  phase  of 
American  society,  to  do  for  the  Old  Dominion  what  Cooper  has  done 
for  the  Indians,  Simms  for  the  Revolutionary  down  in  South  Carolina, 
Irving  for  the  Dutch  Knickerbockers,  and  Hawthorne  for  the  weird 

1  Pronounced  Hasten. 


484     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Puritan  life  of  New  England."  The  scene  is  laid  around  Williamsburg, 
the  colonial  capital  of  Virginia,  in  the  years  immediately  preceding  the 
Revolution.  In  Cooke's  mind  this  was  a  striking  period  of  social  tran 
sition.  "  It  was  the  period  of  the  culmination  of  the  old  regime,"  says 
Cooke  in  the  preface  to  the  1883  edition.  "  A  splendid  society  had 
burst  into  flower,  and  was  enjoying  itself  in  the  sunshine  and  under 
the  blue  skies  of  the  most  beautiful  of  lands.  On  the  surface  the  era 
is  tranquil,  but  beneath  is  the  volcano.  Passion  smolders  under  the 
laughter  ;  the  homespun  coat  jostles  the  embroidered  costume  ;  men 
are  demanding  social  equality,  as  they  will  soon  demand  a  republic ; 
and  the  splendid  old  regime  is  about  to  vanish  in  the  storm  of  Revolu 
tion."  The  novel  is,  therefore,  a  picture  of  the  "  golden  days,"  and  in 
this  way  it  is  perhaps  best  to  take  the  book.  The  reader  who  looks  for 
story  interest  will  find  himself  disappointed.  There  is  plenty  of  action, 
—  ardent  love-making,  duels,  and  the  like, —  and  there  is  bright  talk, 
but  the  plot'  is  not  well  sustained  throughout.  Its  weakness  is  evi 
denced  by  the  fact  that  the  book  is  now  published  as  two  separate 
books,  "  Beatrice  Hallam  "  and  its  sequel,  "  Captain  Ralph,"  either  of 
which  can  be  read  without  the  other. 

SELECTIONS  FROM  "  THE  VIRGINIA  COMEDIANS  " 
MR.  CHAMP  EFFINGHAM  OF  EFFINGHAM  HALL  (PAGE  124) 

Kidderminster :  an  English  manufacturing  town  noted  for  its  carpet 
industry.  —  tout  ensemble:  whole.  —  point  de  Venise :  Venetian  point 
lace.  —  Mr.  Joseph  Addison's  serial:  the  Spectator  essays. 

GOVERNOR  FAUQUIER'S  BALL  (PAGE  128) 

House  of  Burgesses:  the  legislative  body  of  colonial  Virginia. — 
Governor  Fauquier :  a  colonial  governor  of  Virginia,  whose  term 
extended  from  1758  to  1768.  —  the  Raleigh:  the  noted  tavern  at 
Williamsburg. —  Benedick:  one  of  the  characters  in  Shakespeare's 
"Much  Ado  About  Nothing."  —  the  Twopenny-  Act :  see  the  action 
brought  by  the  Reverend  Mr.  Maury^  etc.,  page  132.  In  the  early  days 
of  Virginia  the  salaries  of  the  clergy  were  paid  in  tobacco,  the  clergy 
receiving  the  advantage  of  a  rise  in  price  and  suffering  from  a  low 
price.  In  1758  the  legislature  of  Virginia  enacted  a  law  to  the  effect 
that  these  salaries  should  be  paid  in  paper  currency  at  a  less  amount 
than  the  price  of  tobacco  in  that  year.  This  provoked  a  protest,  one 


NOTES  485 

of  the   test  suits  being  filed   by  the   Reverend  James   Maury.  —  vox 
argentea  of  Cicero :  the  silver  voice  of  Cicero,  the  Roman  orator. 

Mr.  Patrick  Henry :  the  orator  and  statesman  born  in  Hanover 
County,  Virginia,  in  1736.  In  1763  he  came  into  prominence  by  his 
brilliant  plea  for  the  defense  in  the  suit  brought  by  the  Reverend  James 
Maury.  His  later  career  as  an  orator  of  Revolutionary  times  is  too  well 
known  to  be  repeated.  —  Anacreon :  a  Greek  lyric  poet  who  lived  in 
the  fifth  century  B.C. 

Mr.  Wythe,  Colonel  Bland,  etc. :  prominent  characters  in  the  history 
of  colonial  Virginia. —  tictac  :  a  kind  of  backgammon.  —  spadille  :  a 
game  of  cards.  —  Corydons  and  Chloes :  names  common  in  pastoral 
poetry  for  shepherds  and  shepherdesses.  Here  they  are  used  as  equiv 
alent  to  beaux  and  belles.  —  petit  maitre :  coxcomb.  —  Myrtilla  :  see 
note  above.  —  Cordelia:  a  character  in  Shakespeare's  "King  Lear. "- 
Circe :  a  character  in  classical  mythology  who  by  her  powers  of  en 
chantment  transformed  human  beings  into  animals,  such  as  wolves, 
lions,  etc. 

As  the  early  Southern  novels  were  so  largely  of  the  historical  type,  it  is  inter 
esting  to  note  the  episodes  of  Southern  history  that  formed  their  backgrounds. 
A  list  arranged  in  the  order  of  the  historical  situations  contained  in  them  will 
not  only  serve  to  suggest  the  more  important  of  these  novels  but  will  outline  an 
interesting  course  of  reading. 

The  list  would  begin  with  William  Caruthers'  "  Cavaliers  of  Virginia "  and 
St.  George  Tucker  Jr.'s  "  Hansford,"  both  of  which  record  that  dramatic  episode 
of  colonial  history  known  as  Bacon's  Rebellion.  Next  would  come  William  Car 
uthers'  ''  Knights  of  the  Horseshoe,"  based  on  the  romantic  expedition  made  by 
Governor  Spotswood  of  Virginia  to  the  summit  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  whence  he  and 
his  companions  looked  over  for  the  first  time  into  the  Shenandoah  valley.  These 
would  be  followed  by  John  Pendleton  Kennedy's  "  Rob  of  the  Bowl,"  giving  an 
account  of  the  struggle  between  Episcopalianism  and  Roman  Catholicism  in 
Maryland  under  the  second  Lord  Baltimore.  Then  would  come  William  Gilmore 
Simms's  "  Yemassee,"  with  its  background  of  the  uprising  of  the  Yemassee 
Indians  in  1715.  In  John  Esten  Cooke's  '!The  Virginia  Comedians"  and  its 
sequel  "  Henry  St.  John,  Gentleman  "  we  are  carried  on  to  the  splendid  flowering 
of  Virginia  life  just  before  the  Revolution.  With  William  Gilmore  Simms  again 
in  his  several  novels  —  "The  Partisan,"  '•  Katherine  Walton,"  "  Mellichampe," 
''The  Scout,"  "  Euta\v."  "The  Forayers,"  and  "Woodcraft"'  —  we  have  various 
phases  of  the  Revolution.  To  this  same  period  belongs  John  Pendleton  Kennedy's 
"  Horseshoe  Robinson."  The  great  exodus  into  the  Mississippi  valley  and  the 
Southwest,  which  was  the  great  thrill  in  Southern  life  in  the  earl}*  nineteenth  cen 
tury,  found  expression  in  the  series  of  Border  Romances  by  William  Gilmore 
Simms,  which  well  reflect  pioneer  existence  in  the  various  new  states  —  "  Guy 
Rivers  "  for  Georgia,  "  Richard  Hurdis ?!  for  Alabama,  "  Border  Beagles  "  for 


486     SOUTHERN   LIFE   IN   SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

Mississippi,  "  Beauchampe  "  for  Kentucky.  Next  would  come  that  remarkable 
novel  prophetic  of  the  startling  events  to  come  in  the  Civil  War  period,  Nathaniel 
Beverly  Tucker's  "  The  Partisan  Leader."  Caroline  Lee  Hentz's  "  The  Planter's 
Northern  Bride,"  a  reply  to  Mrs.  Stowe's  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  would  bring 
the  chain  of  events  down  almost  to  the  opening  of  the  Civil  War.  John  Esten 
Cooke's  "  Surrey  of  Eagle's  Nest,"  "  Mohun,"  and  "  Hilt  to  Hilt "  would  be  found 
accounts  by  an  eyewitness  of  the  notable  campaigns  of  the  Civil  War  in  Virginia. 

Other  Romancers  and  Story  Writers.  Not  represented  in  this  book  are  the 
following  writers :  Virginia:  John  Beauchamp  Jones  (1810-1866);  North  Caro 
lina:  Calvin  H.  Wiley  (1819-1887);  Georgia:  Francis  Robert  Goulding  (1810- 
1881);  Kentucky:  Catherine  Anne  Warfield  (1816-1877);  Louisiana  :  Sarah  Anne 
Dorsey  (1829-1879). 

HUMORISTS 

Between  1835  and  1855  there  sprang  up  in  the  South  a  group  of 
humorists  whose  work  is  of  interest  on  several  accounts.  In  the  first 
place,  it  was  a  distinctive  contribution  to  American  literature.  The 
people  of  the  antebellum  South  were  a  happy  people  who  cared  more 
for  laughter  than  for  tears.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  Southerner,  and 
still  is,  even  in  the  present  day,  that  in  whatever  assemblage  he  might  be 
there  was  the  matching  of  jokes  and  anecdotes.  In  the  second  place,  this 
humorous  writing  was  an  attempt  to  produce  literature  for  its  own  sake. 
As  has  been  shown,  much  of  the  earlier  writing  was  writing  done  for  a 
purpose,  such  as  orations,  political  essays,  journals,  biographies,  and  the 
like.  Almost  the  first  effort  in  the  South  to  produce  literature  for  its 
own  sake  was  in  the  field  of  humorous  writing.  A  third  reason  why  this 
humorous  Writing  should  command  attention  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  was 
popular  with  the  Southern  people  before  the  war.  Whatever  opinion 
may  be  held  about  its  intrinsic  literary  worth,  there  is  no  gainsaying  the 
fact  that  it  was  the  joy  and  delight  of  the  Southern  people,  and  in  it 
they  thought  they  found  a  faithful  delineation  of  certain  phases  of  their 
life.  A  final  reason  for  giving  attention  to  the  work  of  these  writers  is 
that  they  are  the  forerunners  of  the  realistic  writers  of  the  new  South 
who  have  so  successfully  depicted  in  short  stories  and  novels  the  scenes 
and  characters  of  various  sections  of  the  South. 

The  salient  features  of  this  Southern  humorous  literature  were  the 
natural  outgrowth  of  the  conditions  amidst  which  it  was  produced. 
It  was  a  humor  of  locality.  Those  who  produced  it  perceived  that  in 
the  South  there  were  strongly  marked  types.  This  was  true  of  the 
Southern  gentleman,  with  his  marked  accent  and  mannerisms,  and  it 


NOTES  487 

was  still  more  true  of  the  middle  and  lower  classes  and  their  peculiari 
ties.  It  was  the  humor  of  dialect.  In  that  day  bad  spelling  in  rough 
imitation  of  dialect  was  considered  as  a  necessary  adjunct  to  humor.  It 
was,  moreover,  humor  of  situation.  It  delighted  in  boisterous  and  rather 
crude  situations  of  discomfiture.  Even  people  of  refinement  would  find 
diversion  in  the  roughest  pranks  and  would  laugh  unrestrainedly  over  a 
predicament  that  was  both  painful  and  unfortunate.  It  had  two  other 
characteristics  which  relate  not  to  its  materials  but  to  its  sources.  In 
the  first  place,  it  originated  through  the  newspaper  sketch  and  has  all 
the  freshness  of  that  type  of  literature ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  it 
is,  like  all  other  Southern  literature  of  this  period,  the  work  of  the 
amateur. 

AUGUSTUS  BALDWIN  LOXGSTREET 

From  the  first  Georgia  was  a  much  more  democratic  state  than 
Virginia  or  South  Carolina.  Its  population  was  a  sturdy  race  which 
separation  from  the  more  aristocratic  sections  had  rendered  peculiarly 
individual.  The  country  dances,  the  gander  pullings,  the  militia  drills, 
the  debating  societies,  the  fox  hunts,  the  shooting  matches,  the  horse 
races,  and  the  like  which  formed  so  large  a  part  of  the  everyday  life 
of  the  rural  sections  of  Georgia  are  vividly  portrayed  by  Longstreet  in 
"  Georgia  Scenes,"  from  which  are  taken  the  two  following  selections. 

THE 'HORSE  SWAP  (PAGE  151) 

In  this  sketch  Longstreet  has  given  a  very  lively  picture  of  a  char 
acteristic  feature  of  country  life  in  the  South. 

cracklins :  a  well-cooked,  crisp  rind  of  pork.  —  tout  ensemble :  whole 
appearance.  — tacky  :  ugly  horse.  —  make  a  pass  at  me  :  make  me  an 
offer.  —  banter  :  proposal.  —  boot :  money  given  to  make  an  exchange 
equal.  —  brought  him  to  a  hack :  caused  him  to  hesitate.  —  rues  and 
after  claps  :  bitternesses  and  regrets. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Describe  the  methods  of  the  horse  swap.  2.  What 
impressions  of  the  character  of  the  rural  population  of  Georgia  does 
the  sketch  give  ? 

THE  TURN  OUT  (PAGE  161) 

fescues,  abisselfas,  and  anpersants:  the  author  explains  these  terms  as 
follows  :  "  The  fescue  was  a  sharpened  wire  or  other  instrument  used 
by  the  preceptor  to  point  out  the  letters  to  the  children.  Abisselfa  is  a 


SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

contraction  of  the  words  'a  by  itself,  a.'  It  was  usual,  when  either  of 
the  vowels  constituted  a  syllable  of  a  word,  to  pronounce  it,  and  denote 
its  independent  character  by  the  words  just  mentioned,  thus :  '  a  by  it 
self  <2,  c-o-r-n,  corn,  acorn.''  The  character  which  stands  for  the  word 
'  and '  (&)  was  probably  pronounced  by  the  same  accompaniment  but 
in  terms  borrowed  from  the  Latin  language,  thus  :  '  &  per  se '  (by  itself) 
&.  Hence  anpersants." 

Mrs.  Trollope :  an  English  writer  who,  after  visiting  the  United 
States,  wrote  a  very  grossly  exaggerated  and  unfavorable  account  of  the 
American  people.  —  school-butter :  the  author's  note  on  this  expres 
sion  is  as  follows :  "  I  have  never  been  able  to  satisfy  myself  clearly  as 
to  the  literal  meaning  of  these  terms.  They  were  considered  an  unpar 
donable  insult  to  a  country  school,  and  always  justified  an  attack  by  the 
whole  fraternity  upon  the  person  who  used  them  in  their  hearing." 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  characteristics  of  the  schoolmaster  are  brought 
out?  of  the  boys?  2.  Comment  on  the  democratic  relation  of  school 
master  and  pupils  shown  by  this  incident. 

WILLIAM  TAPPAN  THOMPSON 

The  selection  here  given  is  from  "  Major  Jones's  Courtship,"  which 
consists  of  a  series  of  letters  describing  the  courtship  of  Mary  Stallings 
by  Major  Joseph  Jones,  who  is  a  typical  countryman  and  small  planter 
of  the  middle  class  in  Georgia  —  a  vigorous  and  uneducated  product  of 
plantation  life.  Although  both  Mary  and  the  Major  are  tenderly  inclined 
towards  each  other  and  the  old  folks  are  willing  to  the  match,  yet  it  is 
only  after  various  amusing  situations  that  their  love  attains  a  happy  cul 
mination.  The  book  is  natural  and  faithful  in  its  picture  of  country  life 
in  more  primitive  times,  and  is  full  of  lively  and  wholesome  humor. 

MAJOR  JONES'S  COURTSHIP  (PAGE  170) 

Miss  Carline  and  Miss  Kesiah :  older  sisters  of  the  Major's  sweet 
heart,  Mary  Stallings,  whose  widowed  mother  owns  the  plantation  ad 
joining  the  Major's.  —  old  Miss  Stallins :  Mary  Stallings's  mother. 
The  designation  "  Mrs."  is  often  pronounced  Miss  among  country  peo 
ple  in  the  South. —  jice  :  joist.  —  ager :  ague,  chill.  —  Cato :  a  common 
name  for  negroes. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Give  in  your  own  words  an  account  of  the  incident. 
2.  Comment  on  the  character  of  the  humor. 


NOTES  489 

JAMES  GLOVER  BALDWIN 

Baldwin's  "  Flush  Times  in  Alabama  and  Mississippi,"  from  which 
this  selection  is  taken,  is  a  volume  of  humorous  sketches  drawn  from 
the  writer's  experiences  in  the  "  Shinplaster  Era  "  —  a  time  when  in 
the  recently  opened  Southwest  business  flourished  upon  the  fictitious 
basis  of  universal  credit  and  indefinite  extension.  Of  these  "  flush 
times  "  Baldwin  was  himself  a  part,  and  he  gives  a  very  vivid  interpre 
tation  of  it. 

OVID  BOLUS,  ESQ.  (PAGE  176) 

This  extract  from  the  sketch  with  the  same  title  presents  very 
meagerly  a  piece  of  humor  held  by  some  to  equal  Mark  Twain  at 
his  best. 

Prince  Hal  .  .  .  Falstaff :  characters  in  Shakespeare's  "  King 
Henry  IV." — belles-lettres:  polite  or  elegant  literature.  —  nati  consumer e 
fruges :  born  to  consume  the  fruits  of  the  earth.  —  D'Orsay :  a  leader 
of  society  in  Paris  and  London  in  the  early  nineteenth  century. 
—  manage :  horsemanship.  —  Murat :  a  celebrated  cavalry  leader  in 
Napoleon's  army. 

How  THE  FLUSH  TIMES  SERVED  THE  VIRGINIANS  (PAGE  180) 

This  extract  forms  a  portion  of  the  sketch  entitled  "  How  the  Times 
served  the  Virginians.  Virginians  in  a  New  Country.  The  Rise,  Decline, 
and  Fall  of  the  Rag  Empire  "  —  as  brilliant  a  piece  of  social  character 
ization  as  can  be  found  anywhere. 

verdant  Moses  :  the  reference  is  to  an  episode  in  Goldsmith's  "  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  chap.  xii.  —  resolutions  of  '98:  a  set  of  resolu 
tions  drafted  by  Madison  which  were  passed  by  the  Virginia  legislature 
as  a  protest  against  the  extension  of  the  powers  of  the  federal  govern 
ment  at  the  expense  of  the  states,  as  a  result  of  the  liberal  interpreta 
tion  the  Federalists  were  placing  upon  the  Constitution,  and  in  particular 
by  the  enactment  of  the  Alien  and  Sedition  Acts.  —  Martha :  one  of 
the  characters  in  Scott's  "  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel."  She  was  the 
daughter  of  old  Trapbois,  a  miser  and  usurer.  —  saws  of  Poor  Richard : 
maxims  of  prudence  and  thrift  contained  in  Benjamin  Franklin's  "  Poor 
Richard's  Almanac."  —  Webster  :  Daniel  Webster,  the  American  ora 
tor.  —  University  :  the  University  of  Virginia.  —  Greene  :  a  county 
in  Alabama. 


490     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  characteristics  of  the  Virginians  are  set  forth? 
2.  By  what  means  did  they  attempt  to  repair  their  lost  fortunes  in  the 
Flush  Times  ? 

Other  Humorists.  Among  the  writers  of  humorous  sketches  are  several  others 
of  somewhat  less  importance  than  those  represented  in  this  book.  The  list  would 
include  the  following.  Alabama:  Johnson  Jones  Hooper  (1815-1863);  Tennes 
see  :  George  Washington  Harris  (1814-1869)  ;  Georgia :  John  Basil  Lamar  (1812- 
1862),  Charles  Henry  Smith  ("  Bill  Arp")  (1826-1903);  Louisiana  and  Arkansas: 
Thomas  Bangs  Thorp  (1815-1878). 


POETS 

What  was  found  to  be  true  of  Southern  prose  in  antebellum  times  — 
that  it  was  literature  of  effort  rather  than  accomplishment — is  likewise 
true  of  the  poetry  of  this  period.  The  quantity  was  surprisingly  large. 
The  statement  has  been  made  that  a  list  of  approximately  two  hundred 
and  fifty  writers  of  verse  could  be  made  out,  from  1805  to  1860,  and 
that  there  was  not  a  year  in  which  numbers  of  volumes  of  poetry  were 
published.  Yet  in  all  this  company  there  were  few  who  can  be  called 
writers  of  genuine  power.  It  is  strange  that  the  South,  the  home  of  a 
great  people,  had  no  great  poet  before  the  war.  Poe  was,  to  be  sure, 
great  in  many  respects,  but  he  was  not  great  enough  in  interest  in  real 
life  to  be  called  an  interpreter  of  Southern  life  in  his  poetry. 

Poetry  in  the  South  before  the  war  was  largely  written  by  amateurs. 
It  was  looked  upon,  as  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  has  declared,  as  "  the 
choice  recreation  of  gentlemen,  as  something  fair  and  good,  to  be 
courted  in  a  dainty  amateur  fashion."  In  consequence,  there  is  not  the 
great  thought  and  deep  passion  of  masterpieces,  but  a  general  air  of 
amateurishness.  There  is  also  upon  it,  as  in  all  Southern  literature  of 
this  time  except  the  humor,  the  mark  of  imitation  and,  so,  of  artificiality. 
It  never  seemed  simple,  natural,  unforced.  Furthermore,  the  Southern 
poet  was  unfortunate  in  his  models.  Instead  of  going  to  the  serious, 
elevated  poems  of  Wordsworth  or  to  the  greater  poetry  of  Byron,  he 
took  as  his  models  the  light,  graceful  work  of  the  Cavalier  lyrists, — 
Suckling,  Herrick,  and  Carew,  —  or  the  sentimentalism  of  Tom  Moore, 
or  the  rhetoric  of  Byron,  or  perhaps  the  faultless  but  insipid  early 
poems  of  Tennyson.  As  to  the  theme,  it  was  generally  love,  fortunate 
or  the  reverse,  although  the  whole  gamut  of  the  Muse's  lyre  was  run  in 
kind  and  in  subject  matter.  The  Southern  poets,  moreover,  had  less 


NOTES  491 

individuality  of  expression  than  almost  any  other  group  of  poets  in  the 
world.  The  poetry  might  all  have  been  written  by  one  man.  Even  Poe, 
except  for  his  dominant  mood  of  morbidness,  simply  carried  to  perfec 
tion  what  every  other  poet  of  the  South  was  trying  to  do.  Southern 
poetry  has,  as  conspicuous  qualities,  beauty,  melody,  and  exquisite 
rhythm.  In  the  poets  of  the  lower  South,  especially,  the  local  coloring 
is  noteworthy,  and  the  interpretation  of  nature's  moods  and  outward 
aspects  is  done  with  delicate  artistic  sensibility.  Here  and  there,  how 
ever,  out  of  the  general  mass  of  those  who  attempted  poetry  some  few 
did  best  what  others  did  indifferently,  and  these  are  they  whom  both 
crilcism  and  common  consent  have  agreed  to  call  the  representa 
tive  poets.  But  even  these  have  won  their  place,  not  by  the  bulk  of 
their  work,  but  rather  by  some  single  poem.  This  fact,  however,  is 
no  disparagement  of  their  wprk.  It  is  a  worthy  achievement  to  have 
produced  even  a  single  poem  which  men  will  cherish. 


ST.  GEORGE  TUCKER 
RESIGNATION  (PAGE  188) 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Trace  the  thought  of  the  poem  through  its  successive 
stages.  2.  Assign  reasons  for  this  poem  being  widely  popular. 

FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY 
THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER  (PAGE  190) 

When  the  British  bombarded  Baltimore  in  1814,  Key,  who  had  gone 
under  flag  of  truce  to  the  British  fleet  in  order  to  secure  the  release  of 
a  friend,  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  the  British,  was  compelled  to  remain 
on  board  one  of  the  British  vessels  all  night,  and  was  therefore  a  wit 
ness  of  the  bombardment.  When  he  saw  the  American  flag  still  floating 
over  Fort  McHenry  the  next  morning,  he  wrote  his  famous  poem,  jot 
ting  down  portions  of  it  on  the  back  of  a  letter.  The  version  given 
here  follows  the  original  manuscript  except  in  some  instances  of 
punctuation. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  reference  does  the  poem  have  to  the  specific 
occasion  ?  2.  To  what  feelings  does  it  give  expression  ?  3.  Does  the 
poem  live  by  reason  of  its  merit  or  its  patriotic  appeal  ? 


492     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE 
MY  LIFE  is  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  ROSE  (PAGE  192) 

This  poem  is  expressive  of  the  gentle  melancholy  that  a  perfectly 
happy,  comfortable  Southern  youth  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  nine 
teenth  century  was  fond  of  assuming  simply  because  such  a  Byronic 
affectation  was  fashionable. 

Tampa's  desert  strand  :  Florida. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Which  of  the  three  images  used  to  suggest  the  transi- 
toriness  of  life  is  the  best  and  why  ?  2.  What  is  the  central  thought  of 
the  poem  ?  3.  Is  the  poem  distinctively  Southern  in  its  scenery  ? 

TO   THE    MOCKING-BIRD  (PAGE   193) 

Yorick :  a  jester  at  the  Danish  court  whose  skull,  just  dug  up,  leads 
Hamlet  to  moralizing  (cf.  "Hamlet,"  V,  i).  —  Abbot  of  Misrule:  in 
olden  days  the  leader  of  the  revels  at  Christmas,  who,  in  mockery  of 
the  Church's  absolution  of  sins,  abs'olved  his  followers  of  all  their 
wisdom.  —  Jacques:  one  of  Shakespeare's  characters  who  morbidly 
delights  in  dwelling  on  the  moral  discrepancies  of  the  world.  Shake 
speare's  spelling  of  the  name  is  Jaques. 

QUESTION.   What  aspects  of  the  mocking  bird's  song  are  dwelt  upon  ? 

EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY 
SONG  (PAGE  194) 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  does  the  first  stanza  tell  of  the  poet's  experi 
ence?  2.  What  does  the  second  add  to  this? 

A  SERENADE  (PAGE  194) 

This  poem  was  written  in  honor  of  Miss  Georgiana  McCausland, 
whom  the  poet  afterwards  married. 

QUESTION.   What  is  the  thought  of  the  poem  ? 

A  HEALTH  (PAGE  195) 

This  poem  was  written  in  honor  of  Mrs.  Rebecca  Somerville  of  Balti 
more.  Professor  Lounsbury  gives  this  poem  high  praise  in  saying,  "  It 


NOTES  493 

would  be  difficult  to  find  anywhere  in  English  literature  a  more  exquisite 
tribute  to  womanhood." 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  qualities  of  woman  are  spoken  of?  2.  What 
has  been  the  typical  attitude  of  the  Southern  man  toward  the  other  sex  ? 

MIRABEAU  BUONAPARTE  LAMAR 
THE  DAUGHTER  OF  MENDOZA  (PAGE  197) 

It  is  said  that  this  poem  was  inspired  by  a  beautiful  woman  whom 
Lamar  had  met  in  Central  America. 

Mendoza  :  a  river  of  the  Argentine  Republic. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  details  of  the  woman's  beauty  are  given? 
2.  What  has  been  the  effect  of  this  meeting  upon  the  poet?  3.  These 
stanzas  have  been  spoken  of  as  "  lilting  and  sparkling."  Illustrate. 

ALBERT  PIKE 
To  THE  MOCKING  BIRD  (PAGE  198) 

JEolian  strain  :  music  like  that  produced  by  the  wind  harp. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  idea  regarding  the  mocking  bird  does  each 
stanza  contain  ?  2.  Read  Keats's  "  Ode  to  the  Nightingale  "  and  give 
an  opinion  as  to  how  far  Pike  may  have  been  indebted  to  Keats's  poem. 

PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE 
FLORENCE  VANE  (PAGE  200) 

This  widely  known  song  of  Cooke  is  said  to  be  purely  a  romance 
of  the  writer's  imagination. 

Thy  heart  was  as  a  river,  etc.:  Cooke  explained  the  meaning  of 
these  obscure  lines  as  follows :  "  Florence  did  not  want  the  capacity  to 
love,  but  directed  her  love  to  no  object.  Her  passions  went  flowing 
like  a  lost  river."  His  next  sentence  in  this  explanation  is  an  interesting 
example  of  the  influence  Byron  exerted  over  these  early  Southern 
lyrists.  "  Byron  has  a  kindred  idea  expressed  by  the  same  figure.  Per 
haps  his  verses  were  in  my  mind  when  I  wrote  my  own : 

"  She  was  the  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  all. —  '  The  Dream'  " 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  situation  is  given  in  the  poem?  2.  Does  it 
seem  artificial  in  its  sentiment  ?  3.  What  is  responsible  for  its  charm  ? 


494     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

LIFE  IN  THE  AUTUMN  WOODS  (PAGE  202) 

car :  according  to  mythology  the  sun  was  a  chariot  driven  through 
the  heavens  by  the  god  Apollo.  —  Shakespeare's  melancholy  courtier  : 
Jaques  in  "  As  You  Like  It."  —  Ardennes :  some  have  thought  that 
the  forest  of  Arden,  where  is  laid  the  scene  of  "  As  You  Like  it,"  must 
have  been  taken  from  the  forest  of  Ardennes  in  French  Flanders.  — 
Amiens :  in  "  As  You  Like  It,"  a  lord  attending  on  the  banished  duke. 
—  little  recked:  see  "As  You  Like  It,"  II,  i,  in  which  Jaques  in  an 
excess  of  sentimentality  weeps  over  the  killing  of  a  deer. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  descriptions  of  the  delights  of  hunting  does 
the  poem  give  ?  2.  How  does  the  poet  show  himself  to  be  appreciative 
of  nature  ? 

THEODORE  O'HARA 
THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD  (PAGE  205) 

This  poem  commemorates  the  Kentuckians  who  fell  in  the  Mexican 
War  at  the  battle  of  Buena  Vista.  It  was  read  by  the  author  when 
the  remains  of  these  soldiers  were  brought  to  Frankfort,  Kentucky,  in 
1847  for  burial. 

Came  down  the  serried  foe :  the  Mexicans  under  Santa  Anna.  — 
Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged :  the  battle  raged  for  ten  hours 
with  varying  success.  —  stout  old  chieftain:  General  Zachary  Taylor. 
Angostura's  plain:  the  plateau  on  which  the  battle  was  fought,  so 
called  from  the  mountain  pass  of  Angostura  leading  to  it  from  the 
south.  —  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground  :  this  is  the  meaning  of  the  Indian 
word  "  Kentucky."  —  Spartan  mother's  :  Kentucky  is  here  likened  to 
the  Spartan  mothers  who  wished  to  have  their  sons  return  with  their 
shields  or  upon  them. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  pictures  of  the  battle  and  details  concerning 
it  are  given  ?  2.  WThat  tribute  is  paid  to  the  fallen  soldiers  ?  3.  What 
qualities  are  to  be  expected  in  a  martial  poem?  4.  Does  this  poem 
exhibit  these  ? 

ALEXANDER  BEAUFORT  MEEK 
A  SONG  (PAGE  209) 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Who  is  the  speaker  ?  2.  What  comparisons  does  the 
speaker  use  to  indicate  feeling  ?  3.  Which  of  these  is  the  most  poetic, 
and  why  ? 


NOTES  495 

LAND  OF  THE  SOUTH  (PAGE  210) 

This  is  a  selection  from  a  longer  poem,  entitled  ''  The  Day  of 
Freedom." 

Helvyn:  Switzerland.  —  Tempe :  a  valley  in  Thessaly  famous  for 
its  attractiveness. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  aspects  of  the  South  are  presented?  2.  What 
is  the  basis  of  the  poet's  devotion  to  the  South  ?  3.  To  what  extent 
will  he  go  to  show  his  devotion  ? 

THE  MOCKING  BIRD  (PAGE  211) 

Mime:  mimic. — Petrarch:  an  Italian  poet  of  the  fourteenth  cen 
tury  noted  as  a  writer  of  sonnets.  —  Laura :  the  woman  Petrarch  loved 
and  addressed  in  his  sonnets.  —  Anacreon  :  a  Greek  lyric  poet.  —  Trou 
badour  :  one  of  a  school  of  poets  which  flourished  in  the  southern 
part  of  France  in  the  Middle  Ages. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  To  whom  is  the  poet  speaking?  2.  What  literary 
reminiscences  are  used  in  the  description  of  the  mocking  bird  ? 
3.  Which  of  these  is  the  most  pleasing,  and  why?  4.  Compare  this 
tribute  to  the  mocking  bird  with  other  poems  on  the  same  subject 
found  in  this  volume. 


HENRY  ROOTES  JACKSON 
THE  RED  OLD  HILLS  OF  GEORGIA  (PAGE  213) 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  aspects  of  Georgia  scenery  are  referred  to? 
2.  What  characteristics  of  Southerners  are  mentioned  ?  3.  Is  it  typical 
of  the  Southern  people  that  they  are  home  lovers  ?  4.  Does  this  poem 
well  express  such  a  feeling  ? 

MY  WIFE  AND  CHILD  (PAGE  215) 

By  a  curious  confusion  this  poem  came  to  be  attributed  to  General 
T.  J.  ("  Stonewall")  Jackson  and  is  supposed  to  have  been  written  by 
him  during  the  Civil  War.  It  was,  however,  written  in  1846  by  Henry 
Rootes  Jackson  while  in  the  Mexican  campaign. 

QUESTIONS,    i.  Note   the  picture   of  the  camp  in  the  first  stanza. 

2.  What  glimpses  of  home  life  are  given  in  the  subsequent  stanzas  ? 

3.  What  prayer  does  the  poet  make  for  his  wife  and  child  ? 


496     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

JAMES  MATTHEWS  LEGARE"  * 
To  A  LILY  (PAGE  217) 

Venus :  reference  is  to  the  legend  that  Venus  rose  first  from  the 
foam  of  the  sea. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  comparisons  does  the  poet  make  between  the 
lily  and  his  beloved  ?  2.  Does  the  poem  seem  sincere  in  its  sentiment  ? 

HAW  BLOSSOMS  (PAGE  217) 

QUESTIONS,    i.  What  scene  is  described  in  the  first  five  stanzas? 

2.  What  meditations  on  this  scene  are  given  in  the  next  seven  stanzas  ? 

3.  What  lesson  is  brought  out  in  the  last  two  stanzas  ? 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 
OH,  THE  SWEET  SOUTH  (PAGE  220) 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  is  the  thought  of  the  first  stanza?  2.  What 
characteristics  of  the  South  are  mentioned  in  the  second  stanza  ? 

THE  SWAMP  Fox  (PAGE  222) 

This  poem  is  found  in  Simms's  historical  romance  "  The  Partisan." 
The  Swamp  Fox  was  a  common  designation  for  General  Francis 
Marion,  a  Revolutionary  leader  in  South  Carolina,  whose  shrewdness 
in  attack  and  escape  won  this  nickname. 

Tarleton :  a  distinguished'leader  of  the  British  forces  in  the  South 
during  the  Revolutionary  War.  —  Santee  :  Marion's  principal  field 
of  operations  lay  between  the  Santee  and  the  Peedee  rivers.  —  The 
Colonel :  at  this  time  Marion  held  the  rank  of  colonel.  Subsequently 
he  was  advanced  to  the  rank  of  general.  —  cooter :  a  Southern  col 
loquialism  for  a  fresh-water  tortoise  or  turtle. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  details  of  the  life  of  Marion  and  his  men  are 
mentioned  ?  2.  Compare  this  poem  with  Bryant's  "  Song  of  Marion's 
Men." 

1  Pronounced  Legarce, 


NOTES  497 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 
To  HELEN  (PAGE  225) 

This  poem  is  a  tribute  of  devotion  to  his  boyhood  friend,  Mrs. 
Stannard.  This  lady's  name  was  Jane,  but  Poe  has  given  her  in  the 
poem  the  name  of  "  Helen  "  as  more  fitting  his  tribute  to  her  as  a  classic 
embodiment  of  beauty. 

beauty  :  the  beauty  of  Helen  of  Troy.  —  Nicean  barks  :  it  is  impos 
sible  to  say  exactly  what  this  allusion  means.  It  is  altogether  likely  that 
Poe  has  here  simply  used  some  word  of  his  own  formed  with  a  vague 
suggestion  of  antiquity. —  wanderer  :  Odysseus,  or  Ulysses. —  hyacinth  : 
lovely  as  Hyacinthus,  favorite  of  Apollo.  —  Naiad  :  a  nymph  who  pre 
sided  over  lakes,  brooks,  and  fountains.  The  term  is  therefore  sugges 
tive  of  exquisite  grace.  —  Psyche  :  the  Greek  word  for  "  soul "  and 
also  the  name  of  a  beautiful  maiden  whom  Cupid  loved  and  wedded. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Is  this  poem  notable  for  its  thought  or  for  its  grace 
of  delicacy?  2.  Lines  9  and  10  are  two  of  Poe's  best-known  and  most 
frequently  quoted  lines.  Explain  the  fitness  of  the  words  "  glory  "  and 
"  grandeur." 

ISRAFEL  (PAGE  227) 

"Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute  "  :  Israfel,  the  angel  of  music,  was 
supposed  to  have  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures.  —  hymns : 
the  reference  is  to  "  the  music  of  the  spheres  "  which  the  stars  were 
supposed  to  make  in  their  courses,  levin  :  lightning.  —  Pleiads  :  Poe 
here  refers  to  the  legend  of  a  lost  Pleiad  by  his  use  of  the  past  tense, 
"  Which  were  seven."  —  Where  Love  's  a  grown-up  God  :  Poe  seems  to 
think  of  the  god  of  love,  usually  represented  as  a  boy,  as  grown  to  full 
manhood  in  heaven,  for  love  becomes  perfect  there. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  is  the  vision  of  power  that  the  poet  has,  and 
what  dismays  him  ?  2.  Compare  the  closing  thought  with  that  of 
Shelley's  "  To  a  Skylark." 

THE  RAVEN  (PAGE  228) 

Poe  has  fully  set  forth  his  methods  and  his  purpose  in  this  poem  in 
the  essay  entitled  "  Philosophy  of  Composition." 

lost  Lenore :  Poe  is  said  to  have  told  Mrs.  A.  B.  Shelton,  formerly 
Miss  Royster  (his  first  sweetheart,  whose  father  brought  the  love 


498     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

affair  to  speedy  termination),  that  she  was  the  Lenore  of  "  The  Raven." 

—  Raven  :   frequently  in  literature  a  bird  of  ill  ome,n.  —  Pallas  :   Min 
erva,  goddess  of  wisdom.  —  Plutonian :  characteristic  of  Pluto,  god  of 
the  underworld,  where  utter  darkness  reigned. 

"Wretch":  the  lover  addresses  himself.  —  nepenthe:  a  drink 
thought  by  the  ancients  to  banish  sorrow ;  later  it  came  to  mean  any 
thing  that  quieted  physical  or  mental  anguish,  as,  for  instance,  opium. 

—  balm  in  Gilead  :    a  Biblical  phrase  signifying  remedy  or  consolation 
for  sorrow.  —  Aidenn  :  a  form  for  Eden  coined  by  Poe  for  the  rime.  — 
the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming :  in  answer  to  criticism  of  this  line 
Poe  explained,  "  My  conception  was  that  of  the  bracket  candelabrum 
affixed  against  the  wall,  high  up  above  the  door  and  bust." 

QUESTIONS.  I.  Reconstruct  the  dramatic  situation.  2.  According  to 
Poe  the  interpretation  of  the  poem  was  to  be  found  by  taking  the  fact 
that  the  Raven  stood  for  "  Mournful  and  Never-ending  remembrance  " 
in  connection  with  lines  101,  107,  and  108.  With  this  clue  explain  the 
significance  of  the  poem. 

ULALUME  (PAGE  233) 

This  poem  was  published  in  December,  1847.  As  Poe's  wife  had  died 
under  distressing  circumstances  in  the  preceding  January,  the  poem 
evidently  is  an  expression  of  the  poet's  mood  under  his  bereavement. 

Auber:  coined  by  Poe.  —  Weir:  coined  by  Poe  for  the  sake  of 
rime.  —  Psyche:  the  Greek  word  for  soul.  —  scoriae  rivers:  rivers  of 
lava.  —  Yaanek :  another  of  Poe's  specially  coined  words.  —  boreal  pole  : 
probably  the  Antarctic  regions.  —  senescent :  growing  old.  —  Astarte  : 
the  moon  goddess  of  the  Phoenicians.  —  crescent:  suggestive  of  hope. 

Dian :  the  moon  goddess  of  the  Romans,  who  was  chaste  and  cold 
to  the  advances  of  lovers.  —  where  the  worm  never  dies  :  an  expression 
from  the  Bible  implying  the  gnawing  of  the  unending  grief.  —  stars  of 
the  Lion  :  the  constellation  Leo.  —  Lethean :  with  the  power  of  the 
river  Lethe  in  Hades,  which,  according  to  classical  mythology,  induced 
forgetfulness.  —  sibyllic  :  mysterious.  The  Sibyls  in  classical  mythol 
ogy  were  priestesses  of  Apollo  who  were  inspired  to  utter  mysterious 
prophecies.  —  legended  :  with  an  inscription. 

QUESTION.  This  poem  has  been  commonly  regarded  as  a  mere  ex 
periment  in  verbal  melody  with  very  little  meaning.  Bearing  in  mind 
what  was  said  above  as  to  the  circumstances  of  the  composition  of  the 
poem,  endeavor  to  interpret  the  poem  as  an  expression  of  the  poet's 
feeling  at  that  time. 


NOTES  499 

ANNABEL  LEE  (PAGE  237) 

This  poem  was  published  in  the  New  York  Tribune  two  days  after 
Toe's  death,  and  is  one  of  his  last  poems.  According  to  general 
acceptance  Annabel  Lee  stands  for  the  poet's  \vife,  who  had  died  about 
three  years  before. 

highborn  kinsmen :  the  angels  who  took  Poe's  wife  from  him. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  This  poem  has  more  definiteness  of  incident  than 
Foe's  poems  usually  show.  What  are  the  details  of  the  incident  ? 
Should  the  sentiment  be  called  morbid?  2.  What  qualities  make  this 
one  of  the  most  popular  of  Poe's  poems  ? 

ELDORADO  (PAGE  238) 

This  poem  is  another  one  of  the  last  of  Poe's  poems. 

Eldorado :  a  fabled  city  or  country  abounding  in  gold  and  precious 
stones.  Figuratively  the  word  is  used  to  denote  any  place  of  great 
wealth.  Poe  evidently  uses  the  word  in  the  sense  of  the  poet's  kingdom. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Explain  the  meaning  of  the  poem.  2.  Can  it  be  said 
to  apply  to  Poe's  life  ? 

Other  Poets.  To  the  various  states  named  belong  the  following  poets  who 
have  not  been  represented  in  this  book  but  who  have  attained  some  reputation 
in  and  beyond  their  respective  states.  Maty land :  Charles  Henry  Wharton 
(1748-  ),  John  Shaw  (1778-1809),  Severn  Teackle  Wallis  (1816-1894),  George 
Henry  Miles  (1824-1871);  Virginia:  William  Munford  (1775-1825),  William 
Maxwell  (1784-1857),  Richard  Dabney  (1787-1825),  Henry  Throop  Stanton 
(1834-1899);  South  Carolina:  Caroline  Howard  Oilman  (1794-1888),  Mary 
E.  Lee  (1813-1849),  Catherine  Gendron  Poyas  (1813-1882);  North  Carolina: 
Mary  Bayard  Clarke  (1827-1886),  Theophilus  Hunter  Hill  (1836-1901),  Edwin 
Wiley  Fuller  (1847-1875);  Kentucky:  George  Denison  Prentice  (1802-1870), 
Amelia  Welby  (1819-1852) ;  West  Virginia :  Daniel  Bedinger  Lucas  (1836-  ): 
Alabama:  Augustus  J.  Requier  (1825-1887).  Mississippi:  Rosa  Vertner  Jef 
frey  (1826-1894);  Georgia:  Thomas  Holley  Chivers  (1807-1858). 

PART  II.    POETRY  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 
JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 
MY  MARYLAND  (PAGE  240) 

This  poem  was  written  while  the  author  was  teaching  in  Louisiana.  In 
April,  1861.  he  read  in  one  of  the  New  Orleans  newspapers  an  account 
of  how  the  Massachusetts  troops  had  been  fired  upon  in  their  passage 


500     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

through  his  native  city,  Baltimore.  Unable  to  sleep  in  his  excitement 
over  the  occurrence,  he  rose  at  midnight  and  hastily  composed  this  poem. 

Carroll :  Charles  Carroll  of  Carrollton,  one  of  the  signers  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence.  —  Howard:  John  Eager  Howard,  a  dis 
tinguished  Revolutionary  soldier.  —  Ringgold  :  Samuel  Ringgold,  who 
was  killed  in  the  Mexican  War  at  the  battle  of  Palo  Alto.  —  Watson : 
William  Henry  Watson,  a  colonel  in  the  Mexican  War  who  was  killed 
at  Monterey.  —  Lowe:  Enoch  Lewis  Lowe,  a  soldier  in  the  Mexican 
War  and  later  governor  of  Maryland.  —  May :  Charles  Augustus  May, 
a  distinguished  leader  at  the  battle  of  Monterey.  —  Sic  semper:  the 
full  form  of  the  Latin  motto  is  Sic  semper  tyrannis,  "Thus  always  to 
tyrants."  —  Vandal :  a  term  for  the  Northerners. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  lines  of  the  poem  show  the  immediate  motive 
for  its  writing?  2.  What  is  the  basis  of  the  poet's  appeal  to  Maryland 
to  join  the  Southern  cause  ?  3.  Is  it  an  appeal  simply  to  feeling  or  is 
it  an  appeal  to  reason  ? 

JOHN  PELHAM  (PAGE  243) 

The  hero  celebrated  in  this  poem  was  a  young  Alabamian  who, 
although  barely  twenty-two,  had  signally  distinguished  himself  in  the 
Confederate  army.  His  death  in  the  cavalry  fight  at  Kelly's  Ford, 
March  17,  1863,  caused  profound  grief  throughout  the  army. 

Marcellus :  the  nephew  and  son-in-law  of  the  Emperor  Augustus, 
and  his  intended  successor,  who  met  an  untimely  death. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  references  are  made  to  Pelham's  career? 
2.  What  tribute  is  paid  to  him  ? 

ALBERT  PIKE 
DIXIE  (PAGE  244) 

This  poem  is  perhaps  the  best  of  many  written  in  the  South  to  the 
stirring  tune  "  Dixie."  It  of  course  bears  no  relation  to  the  insig 
nificant  words  that  the  tune  originally  had. 

QUESTION.    By  what  means  does  the  poet  make  his  appeal  ? 

HARRY  MCCARTHY 
THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG  (PAGE  246) 

Like  "  Dixie  "  this  famous  song  originated  in  the  theater  and  first 
became  popular  in  New  Orleans  in  1861. 


NOTES  501 

JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE 
THE  BAND  IN  THE  PINES  (PAGE  247) 

For  note  in  regard  to  Pelham  see  page  498. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  does  the  poet  mean  by  the  "band  in  the  pine 
wood  "  ?  2.  What  is  the  central  thought  of  the  poem  ? 

JOHN  REUBEN  THOMPSON 
ASH  BY  (PAGE  249) 

dragoon  :  Turner  Ashby  was  a  dashing  brigadier  general  of  cavalry. 
He  was  killed  in  a  skirmish  near  Harrisonburg,  Virginia,  in  1862. — 
Paynim :  pagan.  —  Templestowe :  the  place  where  occurred  the 
tournament  described  in  the  forty-third  chapter  of  "  Ivanhoe." 

Music  IN  CAMP  (PAGE  250) 

The  incident  which  was  the  basis  of  this  poem  occurred  during  the 
winter  of  1862-1863,  when  the  Northern  and  Southern  armies  were 
encamped  on  opposite  sides  of  the  Rappahannock  River  in  Virginia. 

QUESTIONS,    i.  What  are  the  details  of  the  incident?    2.  What  is  its 

significance  ? 

THE  BURIAL  OF  LATANE  (PAGE  253) 

% 

Captain  Latane  was  killed  in  the  Pamunkey  expedition  of  General 
1.  E.  B.  Stuart.  His  brother  managed  to  carry  the  body  to  the  near 
by  plantation  of  Mrs.  Brockenbrough.  The  Federal  soldiers,  however, 
refused  to  allow  a  clergyman  to  come  to  conduct  the  funeral.  Accord 
ingly,  accompanied  by  a  few  other  ladies,  a  little  girl  with  her  apron 
filled  with  flowers,  and  a  few  faithful  slaves  who  stood  near,  Mrs.  Brock 
enbrough  herself  read  the  burial  service  and  committed  the  gallant 
soldier's  body  to  the  earth. 

Victrix  et  vidua :  victorious  and  bereft. 

WILLIAM  GORDON  McCABE 
DREAMING  IN  THE  TRENCHES  (PAGE  255) 

This  poem  was  written  in  1864,  while  the  author  was  in  the  trenches 
before  Petersburg. 


502     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Montrose :  James  Graham,  Marquis  of  Montrose,  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  a  supporter  of  Charles  I.  —  the  old  Romance:  Malory's 
"  Morte  d' Arthur."  —  Tristram:  a  knight  of  King  Arthur's  Round 
Table  who  was  the  lover  of  Iseult,  wife  of  his  uncle,  King  Mark  of 
Cornwall. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  is  the  poet's  dream?  2.  What  determination 
does  he  express  in  the  last  stanza  ? 


CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  OF  '62  (PAGE  256) 

QUESTIONS,    i.  What  details  of  the  soldier's  bivouac  are  suggested? 
2.  What  are  the  poet's  thoughts  on  this  Christmas  night? 


JOHN  PEGRAM  (PAGE  258) 

General  Pegram  was  a  distinguished  Confederate  cavalry  leader 
who  was  killed  at  the  head  of  his  division  near  Hatcher's  Run, 
Virginia,  in  February,  1865,  aged  thirty-three. 

QUESTION.  What  tribute  is  paid  to  Pegram  as  a  man  and  as  a 
soldier  ? 


JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER 
STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY  (PAGE  259) 

This  poem  was  written  at  Oakland,  Maryland,  September  17,  1862, 
while  the  battle  of  Antietam  was  in  progress.  It  is  probably  the  most 
graphic  and  condensed  pen  portrait  of  Jackson  ever  made. 

"Blue-light  Elder"  :  Presbyterian  elder.  —  Banks  :  a  general  in  the 
Federal  army.  —  Massa :  a  nickname  among  the  soldiers  for  General 
Jackson.  —  pray:  it  was  General  Jackson's  custom  never  to  begin  a 
battle  without  a  prayer,  and  after  a  victory  to  give  public  thanks  to 
God.  —  In  forma  pauperis:  as  a  poor  man.  —  Hill:  A.  P.  Hill,  a 
prominent  Confederate  general.  —  Pope:  John  Pope,  a  general  in  the 
Federal  army.  —  Stuart:  General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart,  a  Confederate 
cavalry  commander. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  characteristics  of  General  Jackson  are  pre 
sented  ?  2.  Is  the  touch  of  humor  in  this  poem  an  advantage  or  not? 


NOTES  503 

HENRY  LYNDEN  FLASH 
STONEWALL  JACKSON  (PAGE  261) 

In  connection  with  the  battle  of  Chancellorsville  on  May  2,  1863, 
General  Jackson  with  a  small  escort  advanced  in  front  of  his  lines, 
between  eight  and  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  to  reconnoiter.  As  he 
was  returning  his  party  was  mistaken  for  Federal  soldiers  and  was 
fired  upon  by  the  Confederates.  Jackson  was  so  severely  wounded  in 
the  left  arm  and  the  right  hand  that  on  the  following  day  his  left  arm 
was  amputated.  He  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  recover,  but  pneumonia 
set  in,  from  which  he  died.  May  10.  1863. 

QUESTION.    What  is  the  underlying  thought  of  the  poem  ? 

THADDEUS  OLIVER 
ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE  POTOMAC  TO-NIGHT  (PAGE  262) 

The  authorship  of  this  poem  has  been  generally  ascribed  to  Ethel 
Lynn  Beers,  a  New  England  writer.  But  recent  evidence  for  a  different 
view  seems  conclusive.  Professor  C.  Alphonso  Smith  presents  the 
evidence  for  Thaddeus  Oliver's  authorship  as  follows : 

This  poem  was  first  published  unsigned  on  October  21,  1861.  "in  a  Northern 
newspaper."  In  Harper's  Weekly,  of  November  3Oth,  1861,  it  reappeared  with 
Mrs.  Beers'  initials  attached.  Mr.  Oliver,  however,  wrote  the  poem  in  August,  1861, 
and  read  it  to  several  friends  in  camp  with  him  in  Virginia.  In  a  letter  dated  "  Camp 
2d  Ga.  Regt.  near  Centreville.  Va..  October  3rd,  i86i,v  Mr.  John  D.  Ashton,  of 
Georgia,  writing  to  his  wife  says  :  ''  Upon  my  arrival  at  home,  should  I  be  so 
fortunate  as  to  obtain  the  hoped-for  furlough,  I  will  read  you  the  touching  and 
beautiful  poem  mentioned  in  my  letter  of  last  week,  '  All  Quiet  along  the 
Potomac  To-night,'  written  by  my  girlishly  modest  friend,  Thaddeus  Oliver,  of 
the  Buena  Vista  Guards."' 

For  further  evidence  see  Southern  Historical  Society  Papers,  Vol.  VIII, 
pages  255-260. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Show  that  the  poem  gives  a  vivid  picture  of  a  grim 
reality.  2.  In  what  way  does  the  incident  make  a  human  appeal  ? 

MARIE  RAVEXEL  DE  LA  COSTE 
SOMEBODY'S  DARLING  (PAGE  264) 

This  poem  was  one  of  the  best-loved  Confederate  poems  and  for  many 
years  was  to  be  found  in  every  scrapbook  and  heard  on  every  school  stage. 


504     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

CAROLINE  AUGUSTA  BALL 
THE  JACKET  OF  GRAY  (PAGE  266) 

Like  "  Somebody's  Darling  "  this  poem  was  widely  popular,  because 
it  expressed  the  feelings  and  experience  of  many  a  home. 

MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON 
GONE  FORWARD  (PAGE  268) 

This  poem  is  based  upon  the  last  words  of  General  Lee. 

Red-Cross  knights  :  the  insignia  of  the  Christian  knights  of  the 
Middle  Ages  was  often  a  red  cross. 

QUESTION.  What  significance  does  the  poet  attribute  to  Lee's  last 
words  ? 

THE  SHADE  OF  THE  TREES  (PAGE  269) 

This  poem  is  founded  upon  the  last  words  of  General  T.  J. 
("  Stonewall ")  Jackson. 

QUESTION.  What  significance  does  the  poet  ascribe  to  the  last 
words  of  Jackson  ? 

ANONYMOUS 
THE  SOLDIER  BOY  (PAGE  270) 

All  that  is  known  regarding  the  authorship  of  this  poem  is  embodied 
in  the  initials  "  H.  M.  L."  prefixed  to  it  and  the  date,  "  Lynchburg, 
May  18,  1861." 

Damascus :  sword  blades  made  in  Damascus  have  been  noted  for 
their  temper.  —  falchion  :  sword. 

QUESTION.    What  ideals  of  soldierly  honor  does  this  poem  present  ? 

"THE  BRIGADE  MUST  NOT  KNOW,  SIR"  (PAGE  271) 

This  poem  was  written  in  1863,  presumably  shortly  after  the  death 
of  General  "  Stonewall "  Jackson. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Note  the  contrasts  and  the  climax  in  the  dialogue  of 
the  first  three  stanzas.  2.  What  account  of  the  burial  and  what  tribute 
to  Jackson  are  made  in  the  last  three  stanzas  ? 


NOTES  505 

THE  CONFEDERATE  FLAG  (PAGE  272) 

This  poem  first  appeared  in  the  Ifetropolitan  Record.  Nothing  further 
is  known  in  regard  to  its  author  or  its  date. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  In  what  spirit  is  the  outcome  of  the  war  accepted? 
2.  What  may  the  South  continue  to  take  pride  in  ? 


LINES  ox  A  CONFEDERATE  NOTE  (PAGE  273) 

So  much  uncertainty  exists  regarding  the  author  of  this  unique 
poem  that  it  seems  best  not  to  attempt  to  ascribe  it  to  an  author.  In 
the  Smithsonian  Institution,  Washington,  D.C.,  there  is  a  Confederate 
note  with  a  version  of  this  poem  inscribed  upon  the  back  of  it  and 
signed  by  Miss  M.  J.  Turner  of  North  Carolina.  There  is  no  proof, 
however,  that  this  is  the  original  copy.  The  poem  is  frequently  as 
cribed  to  Major  A.  S.  Jonas  of  Mississippi,  who  was  a  member  of  the 
staff  of  General  Stephen  D.  Lee,  and  the  following  account  is  usually 
given  of  its  composition.  After  being  paroled  Major  Jonas  went  to 
Richmond  to  secure  transportation  home.  At  the  Powhatan  Hotel 
his  company  met  a  Miss  Anna  Rush,  a  young  girl  from  the  North. 
She  showed  them  a  batch  of  Confederate  notes  printed  upon  one  side 
which  she  was  taking  home  as  souvenirs.  Handing  one  to  each  officer, 
she  requested  them  to  write  something  on  the  back.  The  officers 
complied  and  this  poem  is  said  to  have  been  Major  Jonas's  contribution. 


ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN 
THE  CONQUERED  BANNER  (PAGE  275) 

This  poem  was  written  a  short  time  after  the  surrender  of  General 
Lee,  but  was  not  published  until  1868,  when  it  appeared  in  Father 
Ryan's  paper,  The  Banner  of  the  South. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  features  of  this  poem  would  make  it  touch 
the  Southern  heart  ?  2.  Judged  purely  as  poetry,  should  it  be  ranked 
high?  3.  While  the  poet  is  intensely  Southern  in  his  feeling,  is  he 
evidencing  unrelenting  bitterness  ?  4.  Is  the  poem  despairing  in  re 
gard  to  the  future  of  the  South  ?  5.  Compare  this  poem  with  "  The 
Confederate  Flag." 


506     SOUTHERN   LIFE  IN   SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 
THE  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE  (PAGE  277) 

This  poem  appeared  in  The  Banner  of  the  South  in  1868,  a  few 
weeks  after  "  The  Conquered  Banner." 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  qualities  of  Lee  as  a  man  and  a  leader  does 
Ryan  suggest  ?  2.  Are  there  others  that  he  might  have  brought  forward  ? 


HENRY  TIMROD 
CAROLINA  (PAGE  279) 

This  stirring  lyric  was  written  in  the  exciting  days  of  1861,  when  the 
states  were  debating  the  question  of  secession. 

Eutaw's  battle-bed  :  the  battle  of  Eutaw  Springs  during  the  Revo 
lutionary  War,  in  which  the  Americans  under  General  Greene  defeated 
the  British. — -Rutledge  :  John  Rutledge,  the  president  and  commander 
in  chief  of  South  Carolina  during  the  Revolution. 

Laurens :  John  Laurens,  a  young  patriot  and  soldier  who  was  killed 
in  the  skirmish  at  the  close  of  the  Revolution.  —  Marion :  the  famous 
partisan  leader  of  the  Revolution.  —  Huns:  Northern  troops.  —  From 
Sachem's  Head  to  Sumter's  wall :  from  mountains  to  sea,  Sachem's 
Head  (more  usually  Caesar's  Head)  being  a  mountain  in  northeastern 
South  Carolina,  and  Sumter  being  the  fort  in  Charleston  harbor. 
—  armorial  trees  :  palmetto  trees  on  the  coat-of-arms  of  South  Carolina. 

QUESTION.  By  what  appeals  does  the  poet  seek  to  stir  the  patriotism 
of  the  citizens  of  his  state  ? 

A  CRY  TO  ARMS  (PAGE  282) 

byre  :   cow  house.  —  cot :  cottage  ;  here  equivalent  to  home. 
QUESTIONS,     i.  Upon  whom  does  the  poet  call,  and  what  is  each 
asked  to  leave  ?    2.  What  is  demanded  of  them  ? 

CHARLESTON  (PAGE  284) 

This  poem  was  evidently  written  late  in  1861,  or  early  in  1862,  when 
Fort  Sumter  and  Fort  Moultrie  were  both  in  the  hands  of  the  Con 
federates  and  the  Union  warships  were  blockading  the  coast. 

second  summer:  Indian  summer.  —  Sumter:  Fort  Sumter  in  Charles 
ton  harbor.  —  Calpe  :  a  Greek  name  for  Gibraltar.  —  Moultrie:  Fort 


NOTES  507 

Moultrie  in  Charleston  harbor.  —  Saxon  lands :  Charleston  was  the 
port  through  which  the  Confederacy  obtained  supplies  from  England 
on  ships  that  ran  the  Federal  blockade. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  picture  of  the  city  is  given?  2.  What  is  said 
of  her  future  ? 

SPRING  (PAGE  286) 

germs:  seeds.  —  South:  the  south  wind.  —  Dryad:  a  tree  nymph. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  aspect  of  spring  is  presented  in  the  first  part 
of  the  poem?  2.  What  references  to  stirring  events  of  Timrod's  time 
does  the  last  part  of  the  poem  contain  ? 

THE  COTTON  BOLL  (PAGE  288) 

Small  sphere  :  the  boll  or  seed  capsule  of  the  cotton.  —  cirque  :  a 
circular  valley.  —  Uriel:  one  of  the  seven  archangels.  —  touched  our 
very  swamps :  the  reference  is  to  William  Gilmore  Simms,  a  fellow 
Charlestonian  and  friend  of  Timrod,  who  had  written  poems  and 
romances  in  which  the  swamps  were  the  backgrounds.  —  Poet  of 
"The  Woodlands":  William  Gilmore  Simms,  whose  country  place 
in  Barnwell  County,  South  Carolina,  was  called  "  Woodlands." 

flute's  .  .  .  trumpet's  .  .  .  west  wind's :  intended  to  symbolize  different 
types  of  Simms's  literary  work.  —  Cornwall :  the  southernmost  county 
of  England,  bounded  on  three  sides  by  water.  It  is  noted  for  its  mines 
of  copper  and  tin,  which  extend  in  some  places  far  under  the  sea  — 
bruit :  report.  —  Goth  :  the  Northern  soldiers.  —  The  Port  which  ruled 
the  Western  seas:  New  York.  At  that  time  it  was  considered  by 
many  Southerners,  especially  South  Carolinians,  as  an  unjust  com 
petitor  for  trade  with  Charleston. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  incident  starts  the  poet's  train  of  thought? 
2.  What  poetic  description  of  the  South  as  the  land  of  cotton  is  given 
in  lines  29-55?  3-  "What  details  of  Southern  scenery  are  given  in 
lines  56-92  ?  4.  The  work  of  what  other  Southern  writer  is  referred 
to  in  lines  93-101?  5.  What  are  Timrod's  thoughts  in  lines  102-120 
about  the  usefulness  of  the  South's  cotton  to  the  world  ?  6.  What  con 
trast  between  this  peaceful  mission  of  the  South  and  the  present  state 
of  warfare  in  the  South  does  the  poet  see  in  lines  122-145?  7-  ^  nat 
hopes  for  the  success  of  the  Southern  cause  does  the  poet  express  in 
the  remainder  of  the  poem  ?  8.  What  qualities  tend  to  make  this  a 
notable  poem  ?  9.  Is  it  too  discursive  ? 


508     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

THE  LILY  CONFIDANTE  (PAGE  293) 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Whom  does  the  lover  select  as  the  confidante  of  his 
secret?  2.  What  question  does  he  ask  the  lily?  3.  What  answer  does 
the  lily  make  ? 

MAGNOLIA  CEMETERY  ODE  (PAGE  295) 

This  lyric  was  sung  on  the  occasion  of  decorating  the  graves  of  the 
Confederate  dead  in  Magnolia  Cemetery,  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
in  1867.  It  has  been  greatly  admired,  one  of  the  most  notable  expres 
sions  of  admiration  being  that  of  Whittier  when  he  said  that  it  was 
"  in  its  simple  grandeur,  the  noblest  poem  ever  written  by  a  Southern 
poet."  More  recently  Professor  Trent  has  said  of  it,  "  One  need  not 
fear  for  this  once  to  compare  a  South  Carolina  poem  with  the  best 
lyric  of  the  kind  in  the  literature  of  the  world." 

no  marble  column :  a  monument  was  later  erected,  consisting  of  a 
bronze  color  bearer  on  a  granite  pedestal. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  is  the  wish  of  the  poet  for  the  fallen  heroes? 
2.  In  what  way  does  the  poem  show  Southern  gallantry  ?  3.  With  what 
picture  does  the  poem  close  ? 


FRANCIS  ORRAY  TICKNOR 
LITTLE  GIFFEN  (PAGE  297) 

This  poem  relates  an  almost  literally  true  story.  The  boy  was  Isaac 
Newton  Giffen,  the  son  of  an  East  Tennessee  blacksmith.  After 
being  severely  wounded,  probably  in  the  battle  of  Chickamauga,  he  was 
nursed  back  to  life  by  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Ticknor  at  their  home,  "  Torch 
Hill."  It  is  believed  that  he  was  afterwards  killed  in  the  battles  around 
Atlanta. 

Johnston  :  General  Joseph  Johnston,  a  Confederate  commander.  The 
battles  of  Dallas  and  Kenesaw  Mountain  are  perhaps  referred  to.  — 
Golden  Ring  :  the  Round  Table,  King  Arthur's  group  of  knights. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Note  the  conciseness  of  detail  with  which  the  inci 
dent  is  told.  2.  What  does  the  poem  show  regarding  the  loyalty  of 
the  poorer  classes  in  the  South  to  the  cause  of  the  Confederacy? 


NOTES  509 

THE  VIRGINIANS  OF  THE  VALLEY  (PAGE  298) 

This  poem  was  written  early  in  the  war,  just  after  Virginia  had 
become  the  scene  of  conflict. 

"Golden  Horse-shoe"  Knights:  the  followers  of  Governor  Spots- 
wood  of  Virginia  who  made  with  him  the  famous  expedition  to  the  top 
of  the  Blue  Ridge  Mountains  were  each  given  a  golden  horseshoe  in 
token  of  the  achievement,  thus  establishing  a  sort  of  Virginia  knighthood. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  references  to  Virginia's  past  in  the  first  two 
stanzas?  2.  What  tribute  to  her  in  the  last  stanza? 


UNKNOWN  (PAGE  299) 

The  poet's  dedication  of  this  poem  is  "  To  the  Women  of  the  South 
decorating  graves  of  Unknown  Soldiers." 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  scene  is  described?  2.  Why  the  expression 
"  doubly  dead,"  line  8  ? 

PAGE  BROOK  (PAGE  300) 

The  title  is  the  name  of  an  old  Southern  homestead  that  had  been 
desolated  by  the  war. 

QUESTION.  What  contrasts  are  made  between  the  home  as  it  now 
is  and  as  it  formerly  was  ? 

LOYAL  (PAGE  301) 

This  poem  was  written  to  commemorate  the  courage  of  General  Pat 
Cleburne.  At  the  battle  of  Franklin,  Tennessee,  in  November,  1864, 
which  General  John  B.  Gordon  has  called  "the  bloodiest  battle  of 
modern  times,"  he  was,  against  his  judgment,  ordered  to  take  some 
well-manned  breastworks.  He  replied  to  the  order,  "  General,  I  will 
take  the  works  or  fall  in  the  effort."  He  was  killed  in  the  attempt.  — 
The  Douglas :  Lord  Douglas,  the  friend  of  Robert  Bruce,  who,  when 
the  latter's  wish  to  go  on  a  crusade  was  frustrated  by  death,  fulfilled 
Bruce's  request  to  take  his  heart  to  Jerusalem.  —  Who  sheltered  :  such 
Southerners  as  Cleburne  and  his  men. 

QUESTION.  The  poem  consists  of  eight  stanzas  of  introduction  with 
a  final  stanza  of  application.  What  is  the  thought  of  each  of  these 
parts  ? 


510     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

PART  III.    THE  NEW  SOUTH  IN  LITERATURE 

After  the  Civil  War  had  swept  away  the  old  civilization  of  the  South, 
and  the  Southern  states  had  passed  through  the  trying  period  of  re 
construction  in  adjusting  themselves  to  the  new  racial,  educational, 
industrial,  and  political  problems,  there  came  to  the  South  great  indus 
trial  prosperity.  In  the  wake  of  this  prosperity  has  come  a  new  out 
burst  of  literary  energy,  surpassing  the  older  literature  in  freshness  and 
variety,  and  the  South  has  come  to  take  a  more  important  place  in 
the  literature  of  the  nation.  This  new  literature  has  achieved  more  in 
prose  than  in  poetry. 

HUMORISTS 

The  writing  of  humorous  sketches  of  social  life  which  we  have  seen 
formed  a  conspicuous  part  of  the  literature  of  the  old  South  was  con 
tinued  until  the  movement  became  merged  with  the  writing  of  short 
stories  portraying  with  "  local  color  "  the  life  of  various  sections. 

RICHARD  MALCOLM  JOHNSTON 

This  selection  is  from  "  The  Dukesborough  Tales."  The  subtitle,  "  Old 
Times  in  Middle  Georgia,"  suggests  the  scope  of  the  book.  It  was 
essentially  reminiscences  of  the  "  grim  and  rude  but  hearty  old  times  in 
Georgia."  Dukesborough  was  simply  Powelton,  Hancock  County 
Georgia,  near  which  the  author  had  been  born,  and  the  characters  were 
representative  of  the  democratic  Georgia  "  cracker  "  class. 

THE  GOOSEPOND  SCHOOLMASTER  (PAGE  303) 

The  selection  here  given  is  descriptive  of  a  type  of  schoolmaster 
that  was  not  infrequently  found  in  the  country  school  of  the  South. 
These  schools  were  commonly  known  as  "  old  field  schools." 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  BAGBY 

JUD  BROWNIN'S  ACCOUNT  OF  RUBINSTEIN'S  PLAYING 
(PAGE  308) 

The  speaker  is  supposed  to  be  an  ignorant  countryman. 
Rubinstein:  a  noted  Russian  pianist  who  made  a  concert  tour  in 
the  United  States. 


NOTES  511 


NOVELISTS  AND  STORY  WRITERS 

About  1875  there  began  to  appear  in  Northern  magazines  sketches 
and  short  stories  by  Southern  writers  which  betokened  the  beginning 
of  a  new  development  in  Southern  fiction.  With  the  passing  of  the  old 
generation  of  fiction  writers,  the  historical  romance  imitating  Scott 
or  Cooper  and  the  crudely  humorous  character  sketch  disappeared. 
Their  places  were  taken  by  the  work  of  the  new  group  of  writers,  who 
dealt  in  a  realistic  way  with  the  various  phases  of  Southern  life.  The 
difference  between  the  old  and  the  new  fashion  in  fiction  was  expressed 
in  the  remark  of  John  Esten  Cooke,  shortly  before  his  death,  about  the 
new  school :  "  They  see,  as  I  do,  that  fiction  should  faithfully  reflect 
life,  and  they  obey  the  law,  while  I  was  born  too  soon,  and  am  now  too 
old  to  learn  my  trade  anew." 

The  new  group  of  writers  opened  their  eyes  to  the  abundant  material 
in  the  South  calling  for  interpreters.  One  of  their  number  has  said : 
"Never  in  the  history  of  the  country  has  there  been  a  generation  of 
writers  who  came  into  such  an  inheritance  of  material."  This  was  true ; 
for  the  antebellum  writers,  with  the  exception  of  the  humorists,  had 
their  sight  obscured  by  the  supposed  uniformity  of  Southern  life  to 
such  an  extent  that  they  failed  to  appreciate  the  wealth  of  picturesque 
material  at  hand.  But  the  vanishing  of  the  old  feudal  system  with  its 
attendant  spirit  of  caste  revealed  more  clearly  than  before  the  variety 
of  type  in  Southern  life,  and  writers  began  to  realize  the  value  of  this 
material.  Thus  the  Creole  of  Louisiana,  the  mountaineer  of  the  Appa 
lachians,  the  "  cracker  "  of  Georgia,  the  inhabitants  of  the  blue-grass 
region  of  Kentucky,  the  negro  —  all  these  and  others  found  their 
observant  interpreters. 

This  group  of  writers  of  fiction  have  been  distinguished  from  their 
predecessors  by  regard  for  careful,  artistic  workmanship.  In  their  work 
is  to  be  found  little  of  the  carelessness  that  mars  the  work  of  the  older 
school  even  in  its  best  representatives,  as,  for  instance,  Simms  and 
Longstreet.  In  ideals  of  craftsmanship  the  newer  writers  have  been 
followers  of  Poe,  the  result  being  carefulness  of  structure  and  regard  for 
distinction  of  style.  Their  success  in  the  short  story  with  local  color  has 
been  marked  enough  to  command  the  respect  of  the  country  at  large. 
But  when  these  writers  have  turned  from  fiction  of  this  shorter  compass 
to  that  of  the  scope  of  the  novel  they  have  frequently  shown  a  weakness 
in  structure  that  has  marred  somewhat  their  achievement  in  this  form. 


512     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Though  Southern  fiction  since  the  war  has  been  provincial  it  has  not 
been  sectional.  Without  exception  the  writers  have  echoed  the  words 
of  Joel  Chandler  Harris  :  "  What  does  it  matter  whether  I  am  a  North 
erner  or  a  Southerner  if  I  am  true  to  truth,  and  true  to  the  larger  truth, 
my  own  self  ?  My  idea  is  that  truth  is  more  important  than  sectionalism, 
and  that  literature  that  can  be  labeled  Northern,  Southern,  Western, 
or  Eastern,  is  not  worth  labeling  at  all";  and,  as  he  put  it  at  another 
time,  "  Whenever  we  have  a  Southern  literature,  it  will  be  American 
and  cosmopolitan  as  well.  Only  let  it  be  the  work  of  g*enius,  and  it  will 
take  all  sections  by  storm."  Essentially  the  same  spirit  is  to  be  found 
in  the  claim  of  Thomas  Nelson  Page  that  in  his  writings  he  never 
wittingly  wrote  a  line  which  he  did  not  hope  might  bring  about  a  better 
understanding  between  the  North  and  the  South,  and  finally  lead  to  a 
more  perfect  Union.  Thus  Southern  writers  have  endeavored  to  further 
that  most  important  task  of  the  present  generation  —  the  promotion 
of  a  real  national  spirit. 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE 
THE  DANCE  IN  PLACE  CONGO  (PAGE  314) 

QUESTIONS,     i.    What   details    are    given    about    Congo    Square  ? 

2.  What  musical  instruments  are  used  in  connection  with  the  dance  ? 

3.  Describe  the  "  bamboula." 

JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

In  the  several  volumes  of  Uncle  Remus  stories  —  "  Uncle  Remus, 
his  Songs  and  his  Sayings,"  "  Nights  with  Uncle  Remus,"  to  mention 
only  the  two  earliest  and  most  important  of  these  collections  —  Joel 
Chandler  Harris  has  done  his  most  distinctive  work  as  a  writer  in  pre 
serving  the  folklore  of  the  negro  in  his  American  environment.  As  he 
himself  stated,  he  was  simply  the  compiler  and  editor  of  the  stories 
that  he  had  picked  up  in  his  contact  with  negroes.  But  he  is  absolutely 
the  creator  of  the  setting  of  the  stories,  —  Uncle  Remus,  the  group  of 
negroes  associated  with  him,  the  little  boy  to  whom  the  stories  are  told, 
and  the  rest, — which  gives  one  of  the  best-sustained  studies  American 
literature  has  of  the  old  plantation  negro.  Inasmuch  as  character  is 
something  more  appreciated  by  readers  generally  than  folklore,  it  may 
be  surmised  that  the  primary  interest  in  the  Uncle  Remus  books  is 
more  frequently  than  not  this  delineation  of  the  gentle  old  darky. 


NOTES  513 

BRER  RABBIT  GROSSLY  DECEIVES  BRER  Fox  (PAGE  324) 

This  tale  was  first  published  in  the  Atlanta  Constitution,  Decem 
ber  21,  1879,  m  tne  department  entitled  "Uncle  Remus's  Folk  Lore." 
It  is  here  reprinted  from  that  source. 

Tar-baby :  see  «  The  Wonderful  Tar-baby  Story  "  in  "  Uncle  Remus, 
his  Songs  and  his  Sayings."  —  pusly;  parsley. 

THE  CUNNING  Fox  is  AGAIN  VICTIMIZED  (PAGE  328) 

This  story  appeared  in  the  Atlanta  Constitution,  December  25,  1879, 
from  which  it  is  here  taken. 

ingun  :  onion.  —  patter-rollers  :  patrols,  that  is,  officers  commissioned 
to  look  out  for  negroes  who  had  slipped  away  without  permission  from 
their  plantations. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  How  does  the  introduction  of  Uncle  Remus,  the  little 
boy,  etc.  add  to  the  interest  of  the  stories  ?  2.  The  author  has  sug 
gested  that  the  stories  of  the  rabbit  and  the  fox  may  be  to  some  extent 
allegorical.  Attempt  an  interpretation  of  this  character.  3.  What 
significance  is  to  be  attached  to  the  fact  that  the  rabbit  is  generally 
victorious  ?  4.  Is  the  rabbit  intended  to  typify  the  negro  race  ? 


MARY  NOAILLES  MURFREE  ("CHARLES  EGBERT  CRADDOCK  ") 
THE  "HARNT"  THAT  WALKS  CHILHOWEE  (PAGE  332) 

This  selection  is  from  one  of  the  stories  in  the  writer's  first  volume, 
"  In  the  Tennessee  Mountains." 

cor'ner:  coroner.  —  laurel:  rhododendron,  which  in  the  vernacular 
of  the  mountains  is  called  laurel. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  is  the  story  of  Reuben  Crabb  ?  2.  What  does 
Clarsie  do  for  him  ?  3.  What  characteristics  of  the  mountaineers  are 
exhibited  in  this  story  ? 

THOMAS   NELSON  PAGE 
MARSE  CHAN  (SUMMARY)  (PAGE  342) 

The  author  has  given  the  following  account  of  how  the  story  came 
to  be  written  : 

Just  then  a  friend  showed  me  a  letter  which  had  been  written  by  a  young  girl 
to  her  sweetheart  in  a  Georgia  regiment,  telling  him  that  she  had  discovered  that 


514     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

she  loved  him  after  all,  and  that  if  he  would  get  a  furlough  and  come  home  she 
would  marry  him.  .  .  .  Then,  as  if  she  feared  such  a  temptation  might  be  too 
strong  for  him,  she  added  a  postscript  in  these  words :  "  Don't  come  without  a 
furlough  ;  for  if  you  don't  come  honorable,  I  won't  marry  you."  This  letter  had 
been  taken  from  the  pocket  of  a  private  dead  on  the  battlefield  of  one  of  the 
battles  around  Richmond,  and,  as  the  date  was  only  a  week  or  two  before  the 
battle  occurred,  its  pathos  struck  me  very  much.  I  remember  I  said,  "  The  poor 
fellow  got  his  furlough  through  a  bullet."  The  idea  remained  with  me,  and  1 
went  to  my  office  one  morning  and  began  to  write  "  Marse  Chan,"  which  was 
finished  in  about  a  week. 


JAMES   LANE  ALLEN 
Two  GENTLEMEN  OF  KENTUCKY  (PAGE  348) 

Cheapside :  the  scene  of  the  story  is  Lexington,  Kentucky.  Cheap- 
side  is  one  of  the  business  streets  of  that  city,  so  named  from  the 
famous  Cheapside  of  London. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  characteristics  are  ascribed  to  Colonel  Romulus 
Fields?  2.  What  to  Peter  ?  3.  Do  such  traits  of  character  among  whites 
and  blacks  in  the  South  give  encouragement  to  believe  that  the  two 
races  can  find  a  common  basis  whereon  they  can  live  in  friendship  ? 


WILLIAM  SIDNEY  PORTER  ("  O.  HENRY") 

The  roving  life  of  Porter  gave  him  a  wide  range  of  acquaintance 
with  human  types  in  different  sections  of  the  country  and  in  different 
levels  of  society.  As  Professor  Stuart  P.  Sherman  has  said,  "  He  has 
made  a  great  harvest  of  the  sounds  and  sights  and  smells  of  New  York 
City  in  chop  house,  'lobster-palace,'  flat,  tenement,  park,  police  court, 
Broadway,  Coney  Island.  He  knows,  too,  the  roads  and  railways  branch 
ing  into  the  South,  and  stretching  across  the  West ;  the  various  features 
and  characters  of  towns  and  cities  from  Chicago  down  the  Mississippi 
Valley  to  New  Orleans  and  out  to  'Frisco ;  the  ranchers  and  miners 
and  the  picturesque  riff-raff  of  adventurers  floating  through  Arizona, 
Texas,  Mexico,  and  South  America,  and  the  returned  wanderer  from 
the  Philippines."  Such  a  statement  should  not,  however,  be  understood 
to  mean  that  his  stories  are  mere  studies  in  localism.  Against  such  a 
view  Porter  always  protested,  as  in  the  following  remark,  "  They  say 
I  know  New  York  well.  Just  change  Twenty-Third  Street  in  one  of 


NOTES  5  I  5 

my  New  York  stories  to  Main  Street,  rub  out  the  Flatiron  Building, 
and  insert  Town  Hall,  and  the  story  will  fit  any  up-State  town  just  as 
well.  So  long  as  a  story  is  true  to  human  nature  all  you  need  to  do  to 
fit  any  town  is  to  change  the  local  color.  You  can  make  all  the  char 
acters  of  the  '  Arabian  Nights  '  parade  up  and  down  Broadway."  The 
result  is  that  Porter  has  exhibited  in  mass  a  great  range  of  human 
nature,  and  if  he  has  not  created  characters  distinctive  because  of 
passions  which  raise  them  above  the  crowd,  he  has  depicted  wide  areas 
and  aspects  of  society  hitherto  untouched  by  the  short  story.  It  is 
this  aspect  of  his  work  that  justifies  Professor  C.  Alphonso  Smith's 
statement,  "  O.  Henry  has  socialized  the  short  story." 


Two  RENEGADES  (PAGE  363) 

This  story  is  typical  of  a  number  of  Porter's  stories  in  having  its 
scene  laid  in  South  America.  It  is  also  characteristic  in  its  portrayal 
of  the  picaresque  type  of  character  and  in  its  original  diction.  It  has 
not  been  deemed  necessary  by  the  present  editor  to  explain  its  slang 
and  its  allusions  to  matters  contemporary  at  the  time  when  Porter 
wrote  the  story. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  were  the  characteristics  of  Doc  Millikin  ? 
2.  In  what  way  does  the  story  show  the  obliterating  of  sectional  ani 
mosities  ?  3.  Point  out  characteristic  features  of  the  writer's  style. 

Other  Novelists  and  Story-Writers.  Some  of  the  more  important  writers  of 
fiction  in  the  South  since  the  Civil  War  are  named  in  the  list  that  follows. 
Maryland:  Francis  Hopkinson  Smith  (1838-1915),  Lucy  Meacham  Thruston 
(1862-  );  Virginia:  Mary  Virginia  Terhune  ("  Marion  Harland")  (1831-  ), 
Mrs.  Burton  Harrison  (1846-  ),  Molly  Elliot  Seawell  (1860-  ),  Amelie 
Rives  (1863-  ),  Mary  Johnston  (1870-  ),  Ellen  Glasgow  (1874-  ), 
James  Branch  Cabell  (1879—  ),  Henry  Sydnor  Harrison  (1880-  )  ;  North 
Carolina:  Frances  Christian  Tiernan  ("Christian  Reid")  (1846-  ),  Thomas 
Dixon  (1864-  );  Georgia:  Harry  Stillwell  Edwards  (1854-  ),  Will  X. 
Harben  (1858-  ) ;  Kentucky :  John  Fox,  Jr.  (1863-  ),  Alice  Hegan  Rice 
(1870-  );  Tennessee:  Sarah  Barnwell  Elliott  (18  -  ),  Frances  Hodgson 
Burnett  (1849-  ),  Will  Allen  Dromgoole  (18  -  ),  John  Trotwood 
Moore  (1858-  ),  Virginia  Frazer  Boyle  (1863-  );  Mississippi:  Katherine 
Sherwood  Bonner  McDowell  ("  Sherwood  Bonner ")  (1849-1883),  Harris 
Dickson  (1868-  );  Alabama:  Augusta  Evans  Wilson  (1835-1909)  ;  Louisi 
ana:  Albion  Tourgee  (1838-1905),  Grace  King  (1852-  ),  Kate  Chopin 
(1851-1904),  Ruth  McEnery  Stuart  (1856-  ),  Mary  Evelyn  Moore  Davis 
(1852-1909). 


Sl6     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 
ESSAYISTS  AND  DESCRIPTIVE  WRITERS 

The  literary  development  of  the  new  South  has  not  produced  notable 
writers  of  essays,  if  the  term  be  taken  in  the  narrower  sense.  But  this 
is  no  disparagement  to  Southern  writers.  The  essay  characterized  by 
a  personal,  confidential  attitude  of  the  writers  toward  their  subjects  and 
their  readers  and  by  an  informal,  familiar  style  —  what  is  commonly 
called  the  familiar  essay  —  is  a  rare  form  that  few  in  English  or  Ameri 
can  literature  seem  able  to  do  well.  If  the  term  be  extended  in  scope 
to  include  the  short  article  discussing  in  a  systematic  way  some  topic 
of  literary,  historical,  or  social  interest,  the  large  number  of  such  arti 
cles  by  Southern  writers  in  the  various  magazines  and  reviews  give  the 
South  a  respectable  showing  in  this  phase  of  literary  activity.  The 
saving  of  space  has  required  that  the  representatives  in  this  field 
selected  for  this  volume  be  confined  to  a  very  small  number. 

SUSAN  DABNEY  SMEDES 

This  selection  is  from  Mrs.  Smedes's  "  Memorials  of  a  Southern 
Planter,"  a  book  which  may  be  regarded  as  a  series  of  essays.  In  this 
book  she  endeavored  to  give  a  faithful  picture  of  her  father,  Thomas 
S.  Dabney.  He  was  born  in  Virginia  in  1798,  but  in  early  manhood 
he  moved  to  Mississippi  and  bought  in  Hinds  County  an  extensive 
plantation  which  he  called  "  Burleigh."  At  the  close  of  the  war  he 
found  himself  impoverished. 

A  SOUTHERN  PLANTER'S  IDEALS  OF  HONOR  (PAGE  373) 

QUESTION.  In  what  ideals  does  Thomas  Dabney  seem  typical  of  the 
Southern  planter  of  the  old  South  ? 

BASIL  LANNEAU  GILDERSLEEVE 
THE  CREED  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH  (PAGE  377) 

Of  the  article  from  which  the  selection  here  given  is  taken,  Mr.  Wil 
liam  Archer,  an  English  critic,  has  written  in  his  "America  To-day  "  as 
follows:  "I  met  a  scholar-soldier  in  the  South  who  had  given  expres 
sion  to  the  sentiment  of  his  race  and  generation  in  an  essay  —  one 
might  almost  say  an  elegy  —  so  chivalrous  in  spirit  and  so  fine  in  liter 
ary  form  that  it  moved  me  well-nigh  to  tears.  Reading  it  at  a  public 


NOTES  517 

library,  I  found  myself  so  visibly  affected  by  it  that  my  neighbor  at  the 
desk  glanced  at  me  in  surprise,  and  I  had  to  pull  myself  sharply 
together." 

Kiihn  1st,  etc.:  bold  is  the  venture,  splendid  the  pay.  —  Gare  de 
Lyon  :  the  terminal  station  in  Paris  of  the  railway  from  Paris  to  Lyons. 
—  in  esse:  in  being.  —  in  posse:  in  possibility.  —  placida  quies :  calm 
repose. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  two  incidents  represent  the  writer's  memory  of 
the  war?  2.  What  does  he  consider  the  real  issue  causing  the  war? 
3.  What  was  the  attitude  of  the  Southern  people  on  that  issue  ? 


WILLIAM  PETERFIELD  TRENT 
THE  DIVERSITY  AMONG  SOUTHERNERS  (PAGE  389) 

This  selection  is  an  extract  from  an  article  entitled  "  Dominant 
Forces  in  Southern  Life,"  which  originally  appeared  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  for  January,  1907. 

Squire  Western  :  a  pleasure-loving  country  gentleman,  a  creation  of 
Fielding  in  "Tom  Jones."  —  Squire  Allworthy  :  another  character  in 
Fielding's  "Tom  Jones."  —  Colonel  Hutchinson  :  John  Hutchinson,  a 
Puritan  soldier  who,  in  the  Great  Rebellion,  fought  against  the  Royal 
ists.  —  Zeitgeist :  spirit  of  the  age.  —  had  a  philosopher  for  god 
father  :  the  allusion  is  to  the  fact  that  John  Locke,  the  eminent  English 
philosopher,  drew  up  a  scheme  for  the  management  of  the  colony  of 
North  Carolina.  —  "  dipping  "  :  a  colloquial  expression  for  taking  snuff. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  are  the  characteristic  differences  between  the 
Southern  states  as  here  set  forth  ?  2.  Test  the  validity  of  the  writer's 
statements  by  your  own  experience.  Would  you  modify  them  in 
any  way? 

POETS 

Despite  the  fact  that  in  the  literature  of  the  new  South  prose  has 
increased  its  lead  on  poetry,  yet  in  this  period  poetry  makes  an  im 
pressive  showing.  By  the  year  1875  — tne  beginning  of  the  South's 
new  development  —  most  of  the  antebellum  writers  either  were  dead 
or  had  come  to  a  standstill  in  their  work,  the  most  notable  exception 
being  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne.  Although  well  past  middle  life  at  the 
close  of  the  war,  he  maintained  such  a  steady  and  persistent  stream  of 


518     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

work  up  to  the  time  of  his  death  in  1886  that  it  seems  proper  to  con 
sider  him  among  the  poets  of  the  new  South.  Further  justification  for 
so  doing  is  found  in  the  fact  that  he  voiced  some  of  the  new  tendencies 
in  Southern  life.  One  of  the  most  marked  of  these  tendencies  was  the 
spirit  of  nationalism.  The  later  poets  have  given  expression  to  the 
growing  belief  in  the  South  that  the  results  of  the  war  must  be  accepted 
by  all  in  good  faith  and  that  all  should  rejoice  that  the  nation  has 
survived  undivided.  Hayne  was  one  of  the  first  to  give  expression  to 
such  a  thought  in  his  poetry. 

In  addition  to  the  spirit  of  nationalism  just  spoken  of,  the  poetry  of 
the  new  South  shows  two  other  tendencies.  The  first  of  these  is  realism. 
The  sentimentalism,  the  melancholy,  and  the  indifference  to  Southern 
landscape  and  character  shown  in  the  older  poetry  has  given  place  to  an 
eagerness  to  use  Southern  local  color.  The  second  tendency  is  an  in 
creased  effort  in  the  direction  of  conscientious  and  skillful  workmanship. 
While,  perhaps,  the  poets  of  the  South,  in  common  with  the  poets  of 
other  sections  of  the  country,  have  interested  themselves  in  execution 
rather  than  in  conception,  yet  the  results  of  their  efforts  give  grounds 
for  the  optimistic  words  of  Professor  Edwin  Mims,  "  In  such  poetry  — 
notable  alike  for  its  artistry  and  its  poetic  feeling  —  one  sees  the  promise 
of  the  future  of  Southern  poetry.  When  the  present  age  of  criticism 
has  passed,  when  the  South  has  become  adjusted  to  its  new  life,  and 
when  again  the  great  poets  shall  be  heard  in  England  and  America,  we 
may  confidently  expect  the  coming  of  a  great  creative  era."  J 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 
A  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUTH  WINDS  (PAGE  400) 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  aspects  of  the  south  winds  does  the  poet 
touch  upon?  2.  Note  how  the  awakening  from  the  dream  is  managed 
at  the  close. 

ASPECTS  OF  THE  PINES  (PAGE  401) 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  aspects  of  the  appearance  of  the  pines  are 
suggested  in  this  poem?  2.  What  effect  of  the  pines  on  the  spirit  of 
man  is  suggested  ? 

1  "The  South  in  the  Building  of  the  Nation,"  Vol.  VII,  page  54. 


NOTES  519 

MACDONALD'S  RAID  —  1780  (PAGE  402) 

Macdonald  was  one  of  General  Marion's  men,  who  led  four  compan 
ions  into  the  fortified  post  of  Georgetown,  South  Carolina,  held  by  three 
hundred  of  the  British  soldiers  and  brought  out  his  men  unharmed. 

Ben  Lomond :  a  mountain  of  central  Scotland.  —  Arab :  Arabian 
horse.  —  dolce:  idleness.  —  Brobdingnag  :  the  land  of  giants  visited  by 
Gulliver. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Who  relates  the  incident?  2.  What  details  of  it  are 
given  ? 

THE  PINE'S  MYSTERY  (PAGE  405) 

Hayne  had  a  peculiar  fondness  for  the  pine.  He  made  it  the  subject 
not  only  of  the  two  poems  herein  given,  but  of  several  other  poems,  all 
of  them  in  his  happiest  vein. 

Gitana  :  a  gypsy  dancer. 

QUESTION.  Has  the  poet  given  a  good  description  of  the  pine's 
mournful  tone  ? 

THE  WILL  AND  THE  WING  (PAGE  405) 

Tantalus  :  in  Grecian  mythology  a  Phrygian  king  who  was  punished 
in  the  lower  world  by  being  placed  in  the  midst  of  a  lake  whose  waters 
reached  to  his  chin  but  receded  whenever  he  sought  to  allay  his  thirst, 
while  over  his  head  hung  branches  laden  with  fruit  which  likewise 
receded  whenever  he  stretched  out  his -hand  to  grasp  them. 

QUESTION.    What  conception  of  his  art  does  the  poet  give  ? 


THE  AXE  AND  PINE  (PAGE  407) 

Dryads  :  in  classical  mythology,  spirits  who  inhabited  trees. 
QUESTIONS,    i.  What  is  the   poet   lamenting?   2.  Explain   the  last 
four  lines. 

MIDSUMMER  IN  THE  SOUTH  (PAGE  407) 

Hesperides :  in  mythology  the  sisters  who  guarded  the  golden 
apples  of  the  sunset. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  aspects  of  midsummer  are  brought  out? 
2.  Which  of  these  is  treated  with  the  greatest  poetic  ability  ? 


520     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

IRWIN  RUSSELL 

Irwin  Russell's  greatest  distinction  lies  in  his  being  the  first  to  point 
out  the  literary  possibilities  of  the  negro.  The  negro  had  appeared  in 
cidentally  in  Southern  literature,  but  Russell  was  the  first  to  make  him 
not  only  the  leading  but  the  sole  character.  Thomas  Nelson  Page  has 
admitted  that  Russell  was  his  teacher  in  this  field,  and  Joel  Chandler 
Harris  gives  Russell  the  same  distinction,  saying,  "  Russell  described 
the  old-time  darky  that  was  even  in  his  time  beginning  to  disappear." 

NEBUCHADNEZZAR  (PAGE  410) 

yeah  's  advancin' :  advances  of  supplies  which  the  negro  had  secured 
from  some  merchant  against  the  value  of  his  crops. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Relate  the  incident.  2.  Is  the  habit  of  philosophizing 
with  the  animals  a  negro  may  be  working  with  characteristic  of  the 
race  ?  3.  Is  the  humorous  acceptance  of  discomfiture  also  one  of  their 
characteristics  ? 

SELLING  A  DOG  (PAGE  412) 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Who  is  speaking?  2.  To  whom  ?  3.  What  character 
istics  of  the  negro  as  a  trader  are  shown.? 

DAT  PETER  (PAGE  413) 

QUESTION.  What  characteristics  of  the  younger  generation  of 
negroes  is  brought  out  in  this  poem  ? 


SIDNEY  LANIER 
THE  TOURNAMENT  (PAGE  416) 

This  was  one  of  the  earliest  poems  of  Lanier.  The  first  part  was 
written  in  1862,  amid  the  horrors  of  war,  while  the  poet  was  in  camp 
near  Wilmington,  North  Carolina.  The  second  part  was  written  three 
years  later  at  his  home  in  Macon,  Georgia,  whither  he  had  returned  after 
the  war.  The  poem  was  first  published  in  "  The  Round  Table,"  in  1867. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Interpret  the  meaning  of  the  first  joust.  2.  Does  the 
last  stanza  of  this  part  of  the  poem  seem  to  give  the  poet's  attitude 
toward  the  war  in  which  he  was  engaged  ?  If  so,  what  does  it  seem  to  be  ? 


NOTES  521 

3.  Interpret  the  meaning  of  the  second  joust.  4.  What  application 
does  this  part  of  the  poem  have  to  conditions  after  the  war  ?  5.  Note 
the  poet's  emphasis  on  the  need  of  the  world  of  love  as  a  vital  element. 

SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE  (PAGE  419) 

This  poem  was  first  published  in  Scotfs  Magazine,  Atlanta,  Georgia, 
from  which  it  is  here  taken. 

The  Chattahoochee  is  a  river  in  Georgia  that  rises  in  the  mountains 
of  that  state,  passes  in  its  upper  course  through  the  counties  of  Hall  and 
Habersham,  and  flows  through  the  lowlands  into  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  reason  does  the  river  assign  for  resisting  all 
temptations  to  stay  in  its  onward  course  ?  2.  Apply  this  to  life.  3.  Is 
the  rippling  and  animated  movement  of  the  poem  appropriate  to  the 
song  of  a  mountain  stream  ? 

THE  CRYSTAL  (PAGE  421) 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Under  what  conditions  did  the  poet  begin  his  mus 
ings?  2.  What  conclusion  did  he  reach  in  regard  to  great  mankind? 
3.  In  what  way  is  Christ  different  from  these  so  far  as  stainlessness  of 
character  is  concerned  ? 

SUNRISE  (PAGE  422) 

This  is  Lanier's  last  completed  poem.  It  was  first  published  in  The 
Independent,  December  14,  1882,  from  which  it  is  here  taken.  In  the 
words  of  Mrs.  Lanier,  it  was  written  "  while  the  sun  of  life  seemed 
fairly  at  the  setting,  and  the  hand  which  first  penciled  its  lines  had  not 
strength  to  carry  nourishment  to  the  lips."  The  poet  is  supposed  to  be 
standing  where  he  can  look  out  over  the  salt  marshes  of  Glynn  County, 
Georgia. 

gospeling  glooms  :  glooms  that  teach  high  truths.  —  purfling  :  em 
broidering. —  menstruum:  a  solvent.  —  Olympian  leisure:  the  leisure 
of  the  deities  of  Olympus.  Explain  the  force  of  "  dateless  "  in  this  con 
nection.  —  born  in  the  purple  :  of  imperial  rank,  purple  being  the  official 
color  of  the  Roman  emperors.  —  innermost  Guest  At  the  marriage  of 
elements  :  an  allusion  to  the  chemical  action  of  the  sun  in  the  world  of 
matter.  —  fellow  of  publicans :  one  who  associates  with  everybody. 
The  publicans,  or  tax  collectors,  of  the  Roman  Empire  were  a  despised 
class  among  the  Jews  and  other  Roman  dependents. 


522     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

QUESTIONS,  i.  How  have  the  marshes  called  to  the  poet  in  his 
slumbers  ?  How  is  his  awakening  described?  2.  In  what  spirit  does  he 
go  out  to  the  live-oaks  and  the  marshes  ?  3.  By  what  terms  does  he 
address  the  trees  and  the  leaves  ?  What  question  does  the  poet  ask  ? 
4.  What  is  the  poet's  petition  ?  5.  What  bird  emerges  from  the  trees  ? 
6.  What  is  the  thought  of  the  stanza  addressed  to  the  "  reverend 
marsh"?  7.  Give  the  details  of  the  full  tide.  8.  Explain  the  line 
"  The  bow-and-string  tension  of  beauty  and  silence."  9.  How  is  the 
motion  of  the  dawn  described  ?  10.  In  what  terms  does  Lanier  describe 
the  first  flush  of  the  eastern  sky  ?  1 1.  Trace  his  description  of  the  slow 
rising  of  the  sun  above  the  horizon.  12.  Give  the  substance  of  the  apos 
trophe  to  heat.  13.  What  is  the  thought  about  the  worker  and  his  toil? 
14.  In  what  spirit  does  the  poet  return  to  the  haunts  of  men  after  this 
contact  with  nature  ? 

JOHN  BANISTER  TABB 

Father  T  abb's  poems  are  all  short,  a  favorite  form  being  the  quatrain. 
Critics  have  aptly  called  them  cameos  —  the  most  delicate  art  in  the 
smallest  compass.  Poetry  of  this  sort  demands  the  most  refined  tech 
nique,  and  that  of  Father  Tabb  is  almost  perfect. 

MY  STAR  (PAGE  429) 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  is  the  thought  of  the  first  stanza?  2.  What 
application  is  made  of  it  in  the  second  stanza  ? 

KILLDEE  (PAGE  430) 

Killdee  :  the  killdee,  or  killdeer,  is  a  bird  of  the  plover  family  that  is 
named  from  its  cry  "  Kill-dee,  Kill-dee." 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  description  is  found  in  the  first  two  stanzas? 
2.  What  reflection  does  the  poet  put  in  the  last  stanzas  ? 

JOHN  HENRY  BONER 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  wrote  of  Boner  as  "  that  gentlest  of 
minstrels  who  caught  his  music  from  the  whispering  pines." 

MOONRISE   IN  THE    PlNES   (PAGE  431) 

bull  bats  :  a  colloquial  name  for  the  nighthawk.  —  Heat-lightning  : 
more  or  less  extensive  and  vivid  flashes  of  lightning  without  thunder, 
seen  at  the  close  of  a  warm  day. 


NOTES  523 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  details  of  the  evening  scene  are  presented  in 
lines  1-32  ?  2.  What  aspects  of  the  pines  are  presented  in  lines  33-48? 
3.  What  elements  has  the  poet  emphasized  in  his  description  of  the 
moonrise,  lines  49-64  ? 

THE  LIGHT'OOD  FIRE  (PAGE  434) 

light'ood  :  a  dialectal  term  applied  to  very  dry  pitchy  and  pine 
wood  used  for  making  a  fire  quickly.  —  Boreas  :  the  north  wind. 

POE'S  COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM  (PAGE  435) 

here  unmated:  the  reference  is  to  the  death  of  Poe's  wife.  —  Apollo  : 
the  Greek  god  of  wisdom  and  prophecy.  —  Astarte :  the  Phoenician 
goddess  of  love.  —  Dis  :  the  lower  regions.  —  stranded:  stringed  — 
a  oold  use  of  the  term.  —  Israf el :  see  Poe's  poem  with  the  title,  page 
227,  and  the  notes  thereon.  —  cenotaphed :  erected  a  monument,  or 
cenotaph,  to  his  fame. 

QUESTION.  \Vhat  thoughts  arise  in  the  poet's  mind  at  the  recol 
lection  of  Poe's  cottage  ? 

WTILL  HENRY  THOMPSON 
THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG  (PAGE  437) 

It  seems  to  be  one  of  the  laws  of  literature  that  the  best  poetry 
is  not  produced  under  the  immediate  stimulus  of  the  event,  but,  as 
Wordsworth  expressed  it,  originates  "  from  emotion  recollected  in 
tranquillity."  At  any  rate,  this  particular  poem,  written  in  1888,  has  been 
regarded  by  many  as  the  most  notable  achievement  in  the  verse 
inspired  by  that  great  struggle. 

The  battle  of  Gettysburg  was  a  development  of  General  Lee's  push 
ing  forward  into  Pennsylvania  in  1863.  At  Gettysburg  he  met  the 
Federal  forces  under  General  Meade,  and  after  three  days  of  fierce 
fighting  (July  i,  2,  3)  he  was  forced  to  retreat  southward.  This  battle 
has  been  regarded  as  the  turning-point  in  the  Civil  War,  the  fortunes 
of  the  Confederacy  steadily  waning  thereafter. 

Pickett :  General  George  E.  Pickett,  who  led  the  final  charge  of  the 
Confederates  in  the  battle.  —  Shiloh's  woods:  an  important  battle  of 
the  war,  fought  near  Shiloh  Church  near  Pittsburg  Landing,  Tennessee, 
April  6  and  7,  1862.  —  Chickamauga's  solitudes  :  one  of  the  most  hotly 
contested  battles  of  the  war,  fought  September  19  and  20,  1863,  near 


524     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

Chickamauga  Creek,  about  twelve  miles  east  of  Chattanooga,  Tennes 
see.  —  Pettigrew :  General  J.  J.  Pettigrew,  a  Confederate  officer  who 
was  killed  during  the  retreat  from  Gettysburg.  —  A  Khamsin  wind  :  a 
hot,  dry  wind  of  the  African  deserts.  —  Kemper:  General  J.  L.  Kemper 
of  the  Confederate  forces.  —  Garnett:  General  R.  B.  Garnett,  who  was 
killed  while  leading  Pickett's  charge.  —  Armistead :  General  L.  A. 
Armistead,  who  was  killed  in  Pickett's  charge.  —  Doubleday:  General 
Abner  Doubleday  of  the  Federal  army. 

QUESTIONS  :    i.  What  details  of  the  battle  are  given?   2.  Show  that 
a  spirit  of  broadest  patriotism  breathes  through  the  poem. 


SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK 
A  SOUTHERN  GIRL  (PAGE  440) 

QUESTION.  What  characteristics  of  the  Southern  girl  are  brought 
out? 

THE  GRAPEVINE  SWING  (PAGE  441) 

bayou :  a  sluggish  stream  which  forms  an  inlet  into  a  river  or  other 
body  of  water. 

QUESTIONS,  i.  Under  what  circumstances  does  the  poet  long  for  a 
return  to  the  joys  of  the  grapevine  swing?  2.  What  details  of  Southern 
scenery  are  depicted  ? 

AUNT  JEMIMA'S  QUILT  (PAGE  443) 

QUESTION.  What  details  of  an  old-fashioned  quilting  party  can  be 
gathered  from  this  poem  ? 

WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

A  MEADOW  SONG  (PAGE  445) 

QUESTION.   What  constitutes  the  appeal  to  come  to  the  meadow? 

WHEN  DOGWOOD  BRIGHTENS  THE  GROVES  OF  SPRING     / 
(PAGE  447) 

QUESTIONS,  i.  What  aspects  of  spring  are  described?  2.  What  cor 
responding  feelings  are  ascribed  to  men  ? 


NOTES  525 

ROBERT  BURNS  WILSON 
To  A  CROW  (PAGE  448) 

Robin  Hood :  an  outlaw  hero  of  English  legend. 

QUESTIONS,    i.   What  characteristics   of  the   crow  are   mentioned? 
2.  What  contrast  does  the  poet  draw  between  the  bird  and  man  ? 

BALLAD  OF  THE  FADED  FIELD  (PAGE  448) 

QUESTIONS,    i.  Note  details  presented  to  picture  the  field.   2.  What 
is  the  thought  the  poet  wishes  to  emphasize  ? 

FRANK  LEBBV  STANTOX 
ANSWERING  TO  ROLL  CALL  (PAGE  451) 
QUESTION.  How  is  this  poem  expressive  of  the  spirit  of  nationalism? 

MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN 
EVENING  ON  THE  FARM  (PAGE  454) 

bull  bats  :  nighthawks.  —  teetering  :  seesawing. 
QUESTIONS,    i.  Carefully  point  out  all  the  details  of   the   picture 
presented.   2.  Does  it  seem  lifelike  ? 

JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 

v „,  — 

AWAY  DOWN  HOME  (PAGE  456) 

QUESTIONS,    i.  What  details  of  the  coming  of  spring  are  given? 
2.  With  what  thought  does  the  poem  close  ? 

AN  IDYL  (PAGE  457) 

QUESTIONS,    i.  What  details  of  the  poem  are  given?   2.  Explain  the 
last  two  lines. 

BAREFOOTED  (PAGE  459) 
QUESTION.   What  boyish  feelings  has  the  poet  tried  to  describe  ? 


526     SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

WALTER  MALONE 
OCTOBER  IN  TENNESSEE  (PAGE  461) 

Aladdin :  a  character  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights  "  who  becomes  pos 
sessed  of  a  magic  lamp  and  ring,  by  rubbing  which  genii  appear  to  do 
his  bidding. 

Other  Poets.  A  list  of  some  of  the  more  important  poets  of  the  later  period  in 
Southern  literature  not  represented  in  this  book  is  given  below.  Maryland : 
Virginia  Woodward  Cloud  (186  -  ),  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese  (1856-  )  ; 
Virginia:  James  Barron  Hope  (1827-1887),  Armistead  Churchill  Gordon  (1855- 
),  James  Lindsay  Gordon  (1860-1904);  North  Carolina:  Henry  Jerome 
Stockard  (1858-1914),  Benjamin  Sledd  (1864-  );  South  Carolina:  George 
Herbert  Sass  (1845-1908),  Yates  Snowden  (1858-  ),  Carlyle  McKinley 
(1847-1904);  Georgia:  Robert  Loveman  (1864-  );  Florida:  Will  Wallace 
Harney  (1831-  );  West  Virginia:  Danske  Dandridge  (1858-  ),  Waitman 
Barbe  (1864-  );  Kentucky:  John  Patterson  (1861-  ),  Lucien  V.  Rule 
(1871-  ),  Cale  Young  Rice  (1872-  )  ;  Tennessee:  Will  T.  Hale  (1857-  ), 
John  Trotwood  Moore  (1858-  ),  Will  Allen  Dromgoole  (18  -  ),  Vir 
ginia  Frazer  Boyle  (1863-  )  ;  Mississippi:  Lafayette  Rupert  Hamlin  (1861- 
1902)  ;  Stark  Young  (1881-  )  ;  Alabama:  Clifford  Lanier  (1844-1908), 
Howard  Weeden  (1847-1905),  Martha  Young  (  -  );  Louisiana:  Mary 
Ashley  Townsend  (1832-1901),  Eliza  Jane  Poitevant  Nicholson  ("  Pearl  Rivers  ") 
(1849-1896);  Texas:  William  Lawrence  Chittenden  (1862-  ),  Clarence 
Ousley  (1863-  ). 

SURVIVALS  OF  OLD  BRITISH  BALLADS 

An  account  of  Southern  literature  would  be  incomplete  without  some 
reference  to  the  ballads  and  songs  of  popular  composition,  sometimes 
called  folk-songs,  in  which  the  South  is  very  rich.  Though  these  songs 
have  endured  from  the  earliest  periods  of  Southern  civilization,  yet 
they  have  only  recently  begun  to  be  collected  into  print.  Such  poetry 
has  important  historical  value  because  it  renders  a  picture  of  the  life, 
the  tastes,  and  the  feelings  of  those  elements  of  the  population  of  the 
South  which  are  largely  untouched  by  books  and  education.  With 
the  wider  diffusion  of  education  in  recent  years  among  the  masses  of 
the  people,  this  folk-poetry  has  begun  to  pass  rapidly  away,  and  it  there 
fore  behooves  the  Southern  people  to  find  and  preserve  this  valuable 
material  before  it  is  too  late  to  do  so.  The  folklore  and  ballad  societies 
existing  in  almost  every  state  as  centers  for  carrying  on  this  work  of 
collection  should  have  the  interest  and  active  support  of  everyone. 


NOTES  527 

The  distinctive  features  of  these  ballads  and  songs  arise  largely  from 
the  circumstances  of  their  origin.  They  were  originally  extemporized 
in  the  presence  of  an  audience  ;  on  subsequent  occasions  reproduced 
partly  from  memory,  partly  under  the  inspiration  of  new  listeners  and 
new  conditions ;  then  transmitted  from  singer  to  singer,  and  reshaped 
by  each.  Thus  there  was  evolved  a  composite  product  defying  ascrip 
tion  to  a  single  author  which,  though  crude  and  homely  as  poetry,  was 
admirably  fitted  for  immediate  effect  upon  hearers  who  were  neither 
subtle  nor  critical. 

One  of  the  most  widely  discussed  phases  of  this  folk-poetry  has  been 
the  survivals  of  old  British  ballads.  Many  of  these  old  ballads  were 
brought  by  the  early  settlers  to  the  American  colonies  and  have  con 
tinued  alive  by  oral  transmission  in  their  transplanted  home,  even  after 
they  had  ceased  to  exist  in  this  way  in  England.  Of  the  three  hun 
dred  and  five  English  and  Scotch  ballads  known  to  scholars,  forty-two 
have  been  found  existing  down  to  recent  times  in  the  Southern  states. 
Many  of  them  are  remarkably  close  to  original  versions  collected  in 
England  and  Scotland  ;  others  have  so  degenerated  as  to  be  hardly 
recognizable.  According  to  information  available  in  1916,  the  five  most 
commonly  found  survivals  of  old  British  ballads  in  the  South  are  the 
following  :  "  Bonnie  Barbara  Allen,"  "  Lady  Isabel  and  the  Elf  Knight," 
"  Lord  Thomas  and  Fair  Annet,"  "  Lord  Lovel,"  and  "  The  Maid  Freed 
from  the  Gallows."  The  version  of  "  Barbara  Allen"  (Child,  84*)  here 
reproduced  was  found  among  the  country  whites  of  Mississippi  in  1909 
by  Professor  E.  C.  Perrow.  That  of  "  Lord  Thomas  and  Fair  Eleanor" 
(Child,  73)  was  reported  from  South  Carolina  in  1914.  Those  of  "  The 
Hangman's  Tree"  (Child,  95)  and  of  "The  Wife  of  Usher's  Well" 
(Child,  79)  were  discovered  by  Miss  Backus  in  the  mountains  of  North 
Carolina.  The  version  of  "  George  Collins  "  (Child,  85)  comes  also 
from  the  mountains  of  North  Carolina. 

Other  Traditional  Songs.  Of  much  interest  are  the  traditional  songs  native 
to  the  South  which  have  developed  where  under  suitable  conditions  the  ballad- 
making  impulse  has  asserted  itself  and  created  a  song  around  an  unfortunate 
love  affair,  the  capture  of  an  outlaw,  a  battle  of  the  Civil  War,  or  other  suitable 
material.  Of  much  interest  also  are  the  negro  songs.  In  the  life  of  this  race 
music  plays  a  large  part,  especially  in  religious  exercises  and  in  collective  labor. 
Many  of  the  negro's  songs  are  taken  from  the  whites,  but  more  are  of  his  own 
devising  and  show  all  the  characteristic  features  of  popular  composition. 

1  This  and  the  following  references  are  to  the  authoritative  collection  — 
Professor  F.  J.  Child's  "English  and  Scottish  Popular  Ballads." 


SELECTED   BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF 
SOUTHERN   LITERATURE 

This  list  aims  at  giving  the  more  important  books  useful  in  the  fur 
ther  study  of  Southern  literature.  References  to  histories  of  American 
literature  and  to  collections  of  selections  from  American  writers  have 
been  omitted,  though  nearly  all  the  standard  works  in  these  fields  treat 
to  some  extent  Southern  writers.  Neither  have  editions  and  biographies 
of  individual  authors  been  included  except  for  some  very  special  reason. 
Fuller  bibliographies  may  be  found  in  Moses'  "  The  Literature  of  the 
South  "  and  in  Alderman  and  Kent's  "  Library  of  Southern  Literature." 

HISTORICAL  AND  SOCIAL 

BROWN,  W.  G.    The  Lower  South  in  American  History. 

CHANDLER,  J.  A.  C,  and  others.    The  South  in  the  Building  of  the 
Nation,  1 2  vols. 

CURRY,  J.  L.  M.   The  Southern  States  —  their  Relation  to  the  Con 
stitution  and  to  the  Union. 

DODD,  W.  E.    Statesmen  of  the  Old  South. 

HART,  A.  B.    The  Southern  South. 

MURPHY,  E.  G.    The  Present  South. 

MURPHY,  E.  G.    The  Basis  for  Ascendency. 

PAGE,  T.  N.    The  Old  South. 

PAGE,  T.  N.    Social  Life  in  Virginia. 

PAGE,  T.  N.    The  Old  Dominion  :  her  Making  and  her  Manners. 

PAGE,  W.  H.    The  Rebuilding  of  Old  Commonwealths. 

RHODES,  J.  F.    History  of  the  United  States  (1850-1877),  8  vols. 

TRENT,  W.  P.    Southern  Statesmen  of  the  Old  Regime. 

WILSON,  W.    History  of  the  American  People. 

WILSON,  W.    Division  and  Reunion  (1829-1889). 

528 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE     529 

LITERARY 
SELECTIONS  FROM  SOUTHERN  WRITERS 

ABERNATHY,  J.  W.  The  Southern  Poets  (selected  poems  of  Lanier, 
Timrod,  and  Hayne). 

ALDERMAN,  E.  A.  (General  Editor),  and  KENT,  C.  W.  (Literary 
Editor).  Library  of  Southern  Literature,  1 6  vols.  (The  fullest  and 
most  important  collection  of  the  work  of  Southern  writers.  The 
selections  are  well  chosen,  but  the  critical  sketches  are  by  many 
different  persons  and  are  of  varying  degrees  of  value.) 

BREVARD,  CAROLINE  M.    Literature  of  the  South. 

BROCK,  SALLIE  A.    The  Southern  Amaranth. 

CLARKE,  JENNIE  T.  Songs  of  the  South :  Choice  Selections  from 
Southern  Poets. 

DAVIDSON.  J.  W.  The  Living  Writers  of  the  South.  (A  valuable 
book  for  writers  living  at  the  date  of  its  publication,  1 869 ;  con 
tains  many  uncollected  poems.) 

FAGAN,  W.  L.    Southern  War  Songs. 

FORREST,  MARY.  Women  of  the  South  Distinguished  in  Literature 
(1861). 

HOLLIDAY,  C.    Three  Centuries  of  Southern  Poetry  (1607-1907). 

HUBNER,  C.    Representative  Southern  Poets. 

HUBNER,  C.  War  poets  of  the  South  and  Confederate  Campfire 
Songs. 

KENT,  C.  W.    Southern  Poems. 

MANLY,  LOUISE.    Southern  Literature  from  1579  to  1895. 

MASON,  EMILY  V.    The  Southern  Poems  of  the  War. 

MIMS,  EDWIN  (Editor).  The  South  in  the  Building  of  the  Nation, 
Vol.  VIII.  (Contains  a  history  of  Southern  fiction,  with  illustra 
tive  extracts.) 

MIMS,  E.,  and  PAYNE,  B.  R.    Southern  Prose  and  Poetry. 

MOORE,  F.    Songs  and  Ballads  of  the  Southern  People,  1861-1865. 

ORGAIN,  KATE.    Southern  Authors  in  Poetry  and  Prose. 

PAINTER,  F.  V.    Poets  of  the  South. 

PAINTER,  F.  V.    Poets  of  Virginia. 

SIMMS.  W.  G.    \Var  Poetry  of  the  South. 

STOCKARD,  J.  E.    A  Study  in  Southern  Poetry. 


530    SOUTHERN  LIFE  IN  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE 

TARDY,  MARY.  Living  Female  Writers  of  the  South  (contains 
selections  from  those  living  in  1872). 

TRENT,  W.  P.    Southern  Writers. 

WATTERSON,  H.  W.  Oddities  in  Southern  Life  and  Character 
(valuable  for  its  selections  from  the  humorists). 

WAUCHOPE,  G.  A.    The  Writers  of  South  Carolina. 

WEBER,  W.  L.    Selections  from  Southern  Poets. 

WHARTON,  H.  M.  War  Songs  and  Poems  of  the  Southern  Con 
federacy. 

,  War  Lyrics  and  Songs  of  the  South.  (This  book,  edited  by  a 

group  of  Southern  women  and  published  in  England  in  1 866,  is  one 
of  the  best  as  well  as  one  of  the  earliest  collections  of  its  kind.) 

BIOGRAPHY  AND  CRITICISM 

BASKERVILL,  W.  M.  Southern  Writers,  2  vols.  (Valuable  for  bio 
graphical  and  critical  studies  of  writers  since  1870.  Volume  I  is 
altogether  by  the  late  Professor  Baskervill ;  Volume  II  contains 
contributions  by  his  friends  and  former  pupils  who  desired  to 
complete  his  projected  work.) 

HENNEMAN,  J.  B.  (Editor).  The  South  in  the  Building  of  the 
Nation,  Vol.  VIII.  (Contains  valuable  articles  on  the  literary 
and  intellectual  life  of  the  South.) 

HOLLIDAY,  C.  A.    History  of  Southern  Literature. 

LINK,  S.  A.    Pioneers  of  Southern  Literature,  2  vols. 

MIMS,  E.,  Life  of  Lanier. 

PICKETT,  MRS.  J.  C.    Literary  Hearthstones  of  Dixie. 

RAYMOND,  IDA.    Southland  Writers,  2  vols. 

RUTHERFORD,  MILDRED  L.    The  South  in  History  and  Literature. 

SHEPHERD,  H.  E.    Authors  of  Maryland. 

TRENT,  W.  P.    Life  of  William  Gilmore  Simms. 

Several  of  the  books  listed  on  the  preceding  page  under  the  heading 
"  Selections  from  Southern  Writers  "  are  useful  for  biographies  and 
criticisms.  In  this  connection  Trent's  "  Southern  Writers  "  and  Alder 
man  and  Kent's  "  Library  of  Southern  Literature  "  are  to  be  especially 
mentioned.  Much  important  biographical  and  critical  matter  will  be 
found  in  magazines,  particularly  the  Sewanee  Review  and  the  South 
Atlantic  Quarterly. 


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